


We're Going to be Free

by Kelty



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fight Scenes, Gen, Hetalia x Hunger Games, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Katniss and Peeta ate the poison berries, NOT Human AU, Original Arena, Panem, Post-Canon, bc Romano is here, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 41,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelty/pseuds/Kelty
Summary: Seventy-five years after the failed rebellion that cost most of the Nation People their lives, America and Canada live in hiding among the citizens of District 12. Katniss Everdeen, the girl they had so hoped would be the spark of a new uprising, died in the previous year’s Hunger Games, and now the special rules of the Quarter Quell have placed the brothers’ names at the top of the tribute pile.Joined by two long-lost allies, thrown into an arena designed specifically for them, and forced to fight or be cut down by the human tributes reaped alongside them, Panem has ensured that the odds are most certainly not in their favour.-----(Hetalia x Hunger Games crossover following America, Canada, Italy, and Romano from the reaping to the final moment of the games. Character development, unique arena, action and fight scenes, and plot-oriented!)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 56





	1. PART 1 - TRIBUTE

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! I’m a big fan of Hetalia and HG crossovers, and wanted to write one with heavier focus on building the world and the specific versions of the characters in it. This work will follow America, Canada, Italy, and Romano from the day of the reaping until the end of the games. I hope you’ll stick around until the games themselves - I have enjoyed playing gamemaker and devising a unique arena full of fun ways to mess with these characters (chuckles).

PART 1 - TRIBUTE

There was something in those eyes, as his knife rose into the air - something akin to fear and desperation and, perhaps most sadly, acceptance. When America’s blade pierced down into one of those eyes, it shook the body beneath his hand before everything fell to stillness. Another kill for the count.

Undoing the wire trap, America carefully pulled the body down, never fully comfortable with the warmth and limpness. It was heavy, but only in how it reminded him that at any time, it could be him. But it would not be today, and later, he’d eat well. 

Smoothly, he hooked the rabbit’s carcass next to the others on his belt, crouching to reset the snare. A cracking of a twig to his back froze him in place. Someone was nearby.

He wasted only a moment in pondering who. Chances could not be taken. He left the snare half-set and stood, turning to the sound. Hand tightening around the handle of his knife, he held his breath and waited, ears tuned to the forest.

Water ran, birds sang, the leaves rustled. All was normal. Scanning between the trunks a few moments longer, he almost believed himself to have imagined the sound, before an unnatural shuffling in the underbrush drew his focus. He turned to another snap. Every sound differing from the forest’s natural hum had him spinning, knife raised in preparation for an attack.

When it finally came, it did so suddenly. The air burst from his lungs as a weight barreled into his back, throwing him to the ground. Leaf litter broke his fall, but did not stop him from losing his grip on the knife. Weaponless, he rolled, launching his attacker to the side. With barely a moment to collect himself, the other returned, wrestling him to the ground as America thrashed to free himself. Long arms and lanky legs battled with his own, countering his movements and leaving no openings for retaliation.

Playful laughter changed his goal from escaping to restraining his enemy. Gaining a moment of advantage, he flipped his attacker onto their back. The struggle did not last much longer, ending in America’s victory as he pinned the other beneath him, staring down into twinkling violet eyes.

Canada laughed airily with his arms pressed into the dirt, winded from their roughhousing.

“Dude, don’t _do_ that!” America scolded his twin, grinning as he got to his feet and reached a hand to help the other.

Canada took the offer, pulling himself to a stand. “Aw, were you _scared?_ ” His voice brimmed with amusement as he brushed the forest litter from his clothes. “Of little old _me?_ ”

“Of course not!” America denied, chest puffing. “You just startled me, is all.”

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Canada turned to rummage for his pack in the bushes. America was glad the attacker had only been his brother. Being caught in the woods by Peacekeepers, lax as those of District 12 could be, would not do them any good.

Yes, better it just be Canada. He trusted him with his life, and knew the other felt the same. Their failed rebellion of over seventy-five years allowed little room to let anyone else close, not when Panem could still be searching for them. 

Canada returned from the underbrush, his bag of herbs, greens, and fruit slung over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget to reset your snare,” he kindly reminded. “I need to drop by the ponds, and then I’ll be done. I still need katniss.”

America chuckled darkly. 

“Don’t we all?”

Canada paused, throwing a sorrowful look over his shoulder before shuffling down the path, shoulders downturned. Watching as he disappeared from sight, America dropped his forced grin, regretting his attempt at humour.

Like they had for all of 12’s citizens, the brothers had watched her grow, that girl with fire in her eyes and rebellion in her very soul. She had been brave and smart, but unlucky and stolen away. It was her nature, he supposed, to volunteer and take her sister’s place. To be sent to fight in the 74th Hunger Games, never to return.

Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire. A name America would never allow himself to forget, a tragedy for the world far greater than a simple victor or citizen. She could have been a revolution. The revolution the exiled nations had been waiting for for seven-and-a-half decades, wiped out at the very end. She and her male counterpart had eaten the poison berries in her palm, and that had been it. The end of the game, year 74 left victorless and just as repressed.

Finishing with his snare, America forced his teeth to unclasp from the inside of his cheek. They had mourned her death long enough, he could not let the loss weigh him down any further. With his knife in its sheath and the rabbit hooked to his belt, he followed after Canada. Dampness deposited by the reaching ferns and brush of the understory weighted the bottoms of his pants. Reaching the small clearing around the pond, America approached the water’s edge, nodding acknowledgement to Canada. His brother stood to his knees in the water, arms submerged to the elbows, cuffs and pant legs rolled to keep them dry. He added a final tuber to the stack he had collected before stepping out to join America.

“This should be enough,” he said, unrolling his sleeves and slipping back into worn, leather boots. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.” Canada smiled, fully intending to follow his brother anywhere. America shrugged, but ran through a mental checklist anyway.

“I don’t have anything else to do,” he began, eyes straying to search out a deer trail on the other side of the pond. It was a beautiful day, light filtering down through the canopy of trees above, a crystal blue sky smiling from beyond. Here, with the gurgling of the stream and smell of crisp forest air, the world seemed almost peaceful. It wasn’t even noon; America felt they should take advantage of the day, and he didn’t hesitate in telling his brother so. 

Canada smiled, following America’s gaze. He nodded his agreement, a companionable silence falling as they walked the trail, the forest thinning to a grassy slope where they picked wild strawberries and competed with a bow Canada had made years ago. When finally the sun began falling to the horizon, only then did they carry on, beginning the journey back to District 12.

\----

It did not take them long to reach the chain-linked fence surrounding the district. The coiled barbed wire lining the top shook ominously, a metal sign warning of high voltage currents clattering in the breeze. As Canada stashed his bow and quiver beneath a cover of plants, America listened for the telltale hum of electricity. Hearing none, they pushed their way through one at a time as the other held an opening.

Beyond the fence, the crumbling buildings reflected the poverty of those who lived there. Many barely stood, fashioned from mismatched wooden panels and reeking of rot and rodents. They themselves had their home nearby, a small, grey wooden shack that was no more than a storm away from toppling to the dirt.

Strolling down the path, the brothers nodded kindly at the weary people they passed. They ambled about, some returning from the mines or odd jobs, others their only purpose to walk away thoughts of their existences. The brothers did their best to ignore the abundant solemn gazes they attracted today.

America’s boots kicked up a small cloud of black with every step. The coal dust from the mines coated both everything and everyone. Not even wildflowers managed to grow. The coal dust smothered them. The people of District 12 had all long abandoned their attempts at washing the soot from their hair and flesh. Canada once remarked it to be a parallel to their lives: dirty and meaningless.

He was right, of course, but it still made America sick. Panem lived and breathed coal, attention to climate change a relic of the past. The ice caps had already melted, the world sunken below the waves. How North America had managed to survive remained a mystery to them all.

When the brothers arrived at the dirty old warehouse that doubled as a market, they stopped first at a butcher’s stall. The huge man observed them silently, expression unreadable as they sifted through their bags. While America haggled a price for their spoils, Canada was pulled aside by a young woman. He spoke soothingly, easing the tension in her shoulders with every word, though she still held an air of awkwardness in his presence. From where America stood, he recognised the topic as treatment for her youngest son, who had fallen ill over the winter.

America internally beamed, half-listening to the conversation as he exchanged coin and carcass with the butcher. Every day, it seemed more people approached the softer-spoken twin for his assistance. Canada was no doctor, but his talent for the trade and honourably discounted prices - far fairer than those of Capitol-trained physicians - proved more than enough.

Leaving them to their conversation, America moved on, dividing and selling their spoils while keeping a rabbit and pouch of strawberries for dinner. Once finished, he took to lazily wandering the market, observing trade and children at play. He smiled sadly. This had once been his land, these his people. His feet came to a halt when a sudden glint of light caught his eye.

He approached the basket of loose, miscellaneous items on a wooden table, drawn towards the shine by an internal tug. Standing before the stall, his breath hitched as the glare on the smooth surface diminished and he got a clear look at the item.

It was no bigger than his pinky nail, nestled among little pieces of junk and toys. A pin: rectangular and distinct, with a star-and-stripe pattern that froze America where he stood.

A flag. _His_ flag.

Here, after nearly three centuries. The shopkeeper appeared across the table, immediately met with the pin held to his face.

“This,” America hissed. “How much?”

The shopkeeper looked taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. “That?” he asked, not daring to pry it from America’s fingers. Overwhelmed by America’s gaze, the shopkeeper vaguely waved his hands in a gifting motion. “It’s junk. J-just take it, I guess…”

America lit up, a thank-you bubbling from his lips before he ran off into the crowd, pin clutched tightly in his palm. Hurrying through the market with the excitement of a child, he quickly found his brother, blond hair standing out in the sea of blacks and browns. He careened into the other without mercy, nearly sending them both to the ground and interrupting the ‘thank-you’ Canada had been sharing with an apothecary.

“Wha- Alfred?” Canada gasped, his soft voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. “What are you doing? Where did you go?”

“C’mon, Mattie.” America ignored Canada’s questions, pulling him along by the sleeve of his shirt. When finally they exited the market’s warehouse, Canada stood his ground, digging his heels into the dirt and making it difficult for America to tug him any farther.

“Alfred, stop! What’s gotten into you?” he asked, voice tinged with concern. “Are you okay?”

Knowing he wouldn’t get any farther, America turned to face him, unclasping his hand to reveal the pin. Canada drew a sharp breath, leaning closer, as if reassuring its existence. 

After a moment, Canada’s gaze lifted to his brother’s. America’s eyes were solemn and deep, and Canada reached his arms around his twin’s shoulders to pull him into a hug. Finally, a piece of evidence beyond their own bodies that the United States had ever existed had appeared to them.

America hugged him back. They remained that way for a while, drawing questioning eyes from passersby, but quickly being lost in the hanging tension of the people around them. 

That night, far past the setting of the sun, dinner eaten, leftovers stored, and grime washed from their bodies, they lay side-by-side on the floor, nothing but a thin mattress separating them from the ground. A scratchy scrap of fabric was wrapped around them as their single shield from the cool air. Less than ideal, but money was sparse and the shared comfort was welcome. Particularly on this night. The next morning, sunrise would not mark the dawn of a regular day, but one feared in the hearts of the districts.

The day of the reaping.

The day in which twenty-four of their children would be shipped to the Capitol, where a sport would be made of their struggle for survival as they are forced to slaughter one another. Where they would participate in the Hunger Games.

He rubbed the surface of the pin with his thumb through a long bout of silence, only disturbed by the distant hoot of an owl. Content as he was, with Canada curled up at his side, a loose mattress spring jabbing into his ribs forced America to shift. Once settled, Canada lifted his chin to look at America’s face, the moonlight filtering through the curtainless windows illuminating general shapes.

“That spring again?” he whispered, soft voice nearly inaudible. “We can switch sides, if you want.” 

“I’m good,” America chuckled at the offer. “Your side isn’t much better.” They both gave a faint laugh, easing the tension in the air if only slightly.

With the silence broken, conversation came easier.

“Who do you think it’ll be this time?” Canada asked, somber and weighted. Faces flitted behind America’s eyes, each as young and undeserving as the last.

“I don’t know,” was the only answer he could provide. A moment of silence passed between them. 

“Did you find out what the Quarter Quell is this year?” America took a second to process the question. He had forgotten. Was it really that time already? Another twenty-five years had passed? The announcement of the special rules had aired while they were in the woods, and America hadn’t thought to ask.

“No. I forgot,” he answered honestly. Canada hummed in contemplation. The conversation died, each of them returning to the recesses of their own minds.

After seventy-five years, their thoughts were always the same - a mutual guilt, knowing the games to be a consequence of their revolution, their failure. Every year, twenty-three innocent children paid the ultimate price as a result, the remaining victor no better off. Every year, they couldn’t help but wonder what they could have done differently.

If anything, the punishment should be theirs to take. There was no one remaining who shared the blame - the other Nation People had lost their lives in the rebellion, leaving the fault purely on them. Yet year after year, they stayed safely together in the dark, out of the Capitol’s reach with their ages marked at nineteen. It would be easy to report themselves as eighteen. Their names would be in the glass ball alongside all the children’s. But they didn’t. They couldn’t.

One look at his brother, and America was grateful for their relative safety. If Canada - the one person he truly had left - were to be reaped and torn away from him, sent off to the Capitol and completely at Panem’s whim, he wouldn’t know what to do. Kill himself, probably, though he couldn’t be certain it would even work. The only thing that kept them from trying was the belief that one day, their people would rise against Panem. And when it happened, they would be there to support them.

Nearby, Canada’s breathing had evened. America let his brother’s steady breaths and the chirping of crickets lull him, distracting his mind from its thoughts. As his eyelids drooped closed, he focused on his brother’s presence and the comfortable weight of the pin in his palm, drifting into a fitful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new faces. Surprise!  
> (Just pretend their names weren't in the synopsis or tags... haha)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: none.

Chocolate eyes cracked open when a beam of morning light worked its way through the fabric-draped window. Drearily, they searched the room before the reality of the day forced them closed again. Sleep-stiffened arms pulled the cover over his head as he curled deeper into the mattress.

He didn’t want to get up. Especially not today.

After lying warm and comfortable for a while, Italy pushed himself into a sit. Under the blanket nearby, Romano snored away, completely dead to the world. Italy smiled without happiness at his brother’s peaceful face. He knew, as soon as his eyes opened, that the smooth, serene expression would be gone for many days.

Tugging the blankets off of himself, Italy put his feet to the cold boards of the floor, coming to a stand while disturbing the bed as little as possible. Romano needed the rest. Neither of them had slept well.

Stretching away the stiffness in his body, Italy crossed the small bedroom to his own bed, realigning and smoothing the covers. At Romano’s pestering, Italy began every night there before crawling in with his brother. Romano would sputter and complain, but his lack of true retaliation led Italy to believe he appreciated the comfort as well.

The unused bed now made, he moved carefully to their shared wardrobe. Reaching into the hanging clothes, he sorted through each one before selecting two dress shirts and finely-pressed pants he had stitched himself. Holding them against each other to check the colours, he folded them neatly into separate piles on his bed.

With the day’s clothes prepared, he snuck from the room, careful not to place a step on any creaky floorboards. Once clear of the bedroom, he glanced around the only other space in the house: a small combined kitchen, firepit, and dining area, which was little more than a table and chairs. Nothing fancy, but enough for the two that shared the space.

Kindling a fire in the hearth, Italy prepared their breakfast of porridge. He hummed a song as he went, hoping to distract from the melancholy air of District 8. While music normally calmed him, even he was subdued and numb in the weeks surrounding the Hunger Games.

The kettle whistled as Romano stomped out of the bedroom, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he grumbled. Italy looked up from the bowls of oatmeal he stirred.

“You were tired, and we still have time.” Italy tried to keep the apprehension from his voice, though he was not convinced of his success. “ _ It _ doesn’t start until two.”

Romano mumbled something incomprehensible, patting down his auburn hair in attempts to tame it and slumping into a chair. Italy placed a steaming bowl in front of him, and joined his brother at the table. They ate in tense silence.

“Do you know what the…  _ rules _ are this year?” Italy finally asked. Romano shot him a sharp look. Realising his mistake, Italy let the subject drop. The reaping and following games were not to be discussed between them.

“No. Didn’t want to ask.” Italy’s head snapped up in surprise at receiving a response. Eyes still buried in his porridge, Romano made no acknowledgement that he had spoken.

They had missed the announcement, hard at work in the textiles factory as they moved through shirt after shirt that would be shipped to every corner of Panem. With all the time they dedicated to their jobs, both had become rather skilled with thread and needles, much to Romano’s displeasure at the ‘useless skill.’ Italy had shied away from asking about the Quarter Quell at the market, the eyes on him feeling especially heavy. It seemed Romano had felt the same.

No matter. It would be repeated at the reaping.

Finished with breakfast, they cleaned up before reconvening in the bedroom. Silently, they stared at the outfits stacked neatly on the bed, then pulled on the clothes with a shared sigh. 

\----

The brothers left an hour early, beginning their long walk from the outskirts of the district to reach the town square on time. Living so far away may have been inconvenient, but it saved them from a grungy apartment in the district’s heart.

District 8 was a depressing place, in Italy’s opinion. Its industrial nature had almost everything made of cold stone and metal. Unless one journeyed to the edges of the district, not a trace of anything natural could be found. No trees, no flowers, and no animals other than mangy, flea-covered strays. How Italy longed for the nature and beauty of his own land.

Arriving in the town square, they were herded with the crowd into the open area, separated from the pillared Justice Building by a stage. Cameras set up along the roofs of the surrounding buildings broadcasted the events on screens all over Panem. From the projectors on either side of the stage, similar scenes in the other districts jumped about.

Italy glanced around, craning his neck in an effort to see over the taller citizens around them. He was surprised to notice the lack of roped areas where potential tributes were normally sorted. Instead, it seemed everyone had simply been gathered in the cobblestone square.

Examining the stage, his eyes wandered over a row of chairs, the mayor, two previous district victors, and Capitol escort each claiming one. A podium sat near the front of the stage, the glass balls containing the names of the tributes - one for boys, one for girls - pedestaled on gold-rimmed stands to either side. Italy’s head quirked in confusion, as they appeared rather…  _ empty _ , only a few measly slips of paper littering the bottoms of each.

The crackling of the microphone drew both brothers’ attention to District 8’s mayor, a round, balding man who now stood at the podium.

“Welcome, citizens of District 8!” he called over the crowd, hushing the already sparse conversation. “We once again gather, the reaping bringing us together in a time for both repentance and thanks.”

He gave a speech rendered dull by its annual use, ending with a reminder of the Games’ rules - how tributes were to be reaped from each district and sent to the Capitol, where they would fight to the death for fame and riches. Finally, after a short listing of the district’s previous victors and an introduction of the Capitol escort, a young man with dark chocolate skin, buzz-cut purple hair, and an absurd number of facial piercings took the stage. After his name and a burst of excited pleasantries, his speech concluded.

“Now, for this year’s Quarter Quell, our very own President Snow will once again speak of the year’s special rules!” His voice was shrill, every word sung and pitched. Italy could feel Romano’s aggravation on his skin. “Now, if you would all turn your attention to the screens!”

Following Panem’s anthem and the fading of the Capitol’s emblem, the screens showed an ageing man, the frame cutting below his shoulders. Other than a distinctly large nose and the webs of crow’s feet on his skin, Italy found there to be nothing distinct about him, nothing to hint at the cruelty he was capable of. His white hair meshed into a matching, well-groomed beard, and he wore a contrasting black suit. Sitting tall in an elegantly decorated chair, his eyes stared directly into the camera, but not at any of the suffering people under his rule.

Behind him, he was accompanied by a young man standing straight and sure, white clothing pressed and done up to perfection. His own snow-white hair hung to his ears, bangs swept sideways across his forehead. Stormy grey eyes bore into the camera, aura commanding obeisance. Italy felt the gaze hot on his skin, as if Panem were watching him specifically, keeping tabs on his suffering and fear. Romano bristled beside him.

Italy could not understand why Panem, who had seemed so innocent, so kind, so  _ soft, _ had betrayed them. Had the world given him reason? Certainly, they hadn’t done anything deserving of what they’d lived through.

Refocusing on President Snow, Italy shook the thoughts of Panem from his mind. Thinking about what was done would change nothing. The president had been speaking, silky words so misleading it turned Italy’s stomach. Finally, the moment they awaited came when Snow reached for a cream-coloured sheet of paper folded delicately into thirds. Carefully undoing the creases with gloved hands, he began to read, voice booming in the silence of the square.

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the defeat of the rebels, the tributes will be drawn from the paired names of twins, a pair of girls and a pair of boys, between the ages of twelve and thirty.” Italy’s world fell away, ice in his veins, mind flashing to the registration documents that had him and his brother sharing a birthday. “Happy Hunger Games, and  _ may the odds be ever in your favour _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, the victor re-match being the Quarter-Quell rule in Catching Fire was staged for political reasons, so I've taken the liberty of changing it. For clarity, Italy and Romano are not twins per se - but I'd guess they look about the same age, and for ease of remembering birthdays / cover stories they've chosen to register as twins with the District. Bad luck!
> 
> Until next time :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: none.

In the square before District 12’s Justice Building, all fell silent. President Snow’s words echoed deep in America’s skull, and Canada stood rigid as ice next to him.

_ This year’s Hunger Games tributes will be reaped from the paired names of twins. _

It was not possible. They had gone through all the measures; they were supposed to be safe.

America’s mind raced, flipping through the faces of their small district. He knew of only four other pairs of male twins, three of which were too old to be eligible. His blood ran cold.

That left them with a fifty-fifty chance.

Disgust rippled through the crowd, but he was too caught up in his own panic to dwell on it. Vaguely, he was aware of the reapings having begun in the first districts, though he could not bring himself to listen. His focus tunneled on the glass ball perched on the stage, the one containing the male twins’ names. He could only make out two folded slips. Fifty-fifty. 

He and his brother might very well be going to the Hunger Games.

Numb to the world, Canada’s elbow in his ribs tore his gaze from the glass ball. He followed his brother’s pointed finger to the screens.

It took him a moment to make sense of the images. Two young men, both with short auburn hair, strange curls, and tanned, caramel skin were pulled from the crowd. One struggled in vain against the Peacekeepers, hollering something indiscernible to the microphones. Despite his efforts, they were forced to the stage and subdued by the eyes of their district. The boy who had remained quiet gripped the other’s arm, hiding behind him as he stared into the crowd.

A man with purple hair placed his hand comfortingly on the first twin’s shoulder, sweeping his gaze over the audience.

“Any volunteers?” he asked. Answered with silence, he turned to the copper-haired siblings. “It’s decided, then! Ladies and gentlemen, District 8’s male tributes, Lovino and Feliciano Vargas!”

They disappeared to the faces of the next district, and America lost touch with the world once again.

He was certain they had been Romano and Italy. Yet, it was impossible. All the other nations had died in the rebellion, seventy-five years gone and buried. They couldn’t still be alive.

He was jarred from his thoughts when their district’s microphone came to life. Effie Trinket took the podium, painted face, towering hair, and piercing dress the only colour in America’s grey-toned world. After a speech practically sung to the audience, she waddled to the girls’ ball, a cry of ‘ladies first!’ fresh on her lips.

America watched numbly as Effie reached a lace-gloved hand into the ball with flourish. Retracing her steps to the podium, she leaned into the microphone to read off the selected paper slip.

“Dawn and Ava Peeke!”

Singled from the crowd were two children of barely twelve years old. As the redheaded girls were led to the stage by Capitol Peacekeepers, America recognised the smaller as a past patient of Canada’s. She hung desperately off her sister, crying uncontrollably. The other appeared no better, pale and trembling as she silently begged the audience for someone to take their place.

Unsurprisingly, no one stepped up.

The lack of volunteers established, Effie crossed to the previously ignored ball of glass. The one with two slips, one of which had America and Canada’s names on it. America’s heart drowned the world in its drumming. It was so loud, he feared he would not be able to hear the drawn name over its beating.

Canada’s hand appeared in his own. Looking to his brother, America found him staring unblinkingly at the stage, pale-faced and lips drawn. America knew he had come to the same conclusion: the odds were certainly  _ not _ in their favour.

Effie’s hand swirled dramatically around the bowl, hovering above one slip before switching to the other and back again. The unnecessary show for suspense lasted an eternity, until finally she snatched one of the inconspicuous slips, hoisting it high into the air.

At the podium, she paused in its reading. America’s pulse hammered heavier against his chest with each drawn second. 

She inhaled, and decreed, “my, what an odd pair of names.”

It was enough. America knew. He knew Canada knew, hand tensing within his own.

“Matthew Williams and Alfred Jones!”

The world silenced and tore away beneath America’s feet. He heard and felt nothing but his brother’s trembling hand in his own. Far away, Effie urged them to reveal themselves, and the crowd turned solemnly to face them. Numbly, America stumbled forward, tugging Canada’s hand until he had no choice but to follow. He couldn’t think or speak or breathe, barely managing to keep hold of his brother through the lake of molasses he fought through. The humans parted for them, children and adults and seniors they had watched grow since birth, opening a path to the stage as if they were boats in icy water. At the base of the stairs, America slowed for Canada to fall into step with him.

Together, they climbed the steps, silence heavy in the square as they took their place on the stage. The young girls ran to Canada’s familiar face, wrapping themselves around him and burying themselves into his shirt. He hugged them dazedly back.

For a few moments, Effie’s features fell, before she collected herself. Her grin re-appeared, mouth opening to speak.

The words never left her lips, the thought killed by a sea of hands raised in solidarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a super short chapter, so I might upload another. They get longer from here on out!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Briefly introducing the thoughts of our new nation friend... there are many fan versions of Panem out there, each a little bit different from each other. While he won't be appearing much in this fic, I hope you like him. If I ever get around to writing a second installment to this, I think I would like to use it to develop him more as a character. But I should focus on finishing this story first!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: crying children :(

Standing rigid next to his human puppet, ice-grey eyes remained locked on the screen before him, thoughts running at the speed of a bullet train.

_ Impossible. _

He cared not for the forty-four humans whose faces jumped across the screen. Patiently, he waited until two brothers - auburn hair, chocolate eyes, one spiteful and defiant, the other hunched and terrified - appeared once again.

Scrutinizing their faces through the screen, he ran them through the database of people in his mind, eyes narrowing. Soon, two spectacled blonds replaced them, one with jaw-length hair and powdery violet eyes, the other’s hair cut short and eyes sky-blue, both standing tall and rigid.

_ Impossible. _

It could not be. He had killed them all, when he snuffed their little rebellion. The nations should not exist, hiding among his districts. Panem’s blood heated. With a slight bow, he excused himself from his president’s side, disappearing into the shadows of the doorway behind.

If remnants of the old world truly still existed, there would be much work to do.

\----

_ They were going to the Hunger Games. _

The thought played over and over in America’s mind, drowning the world and action around him. He moved mechanically as Peacekeepers escorted him and his brother into the Justice Building, where there they were ushered behind an oak door that slammed heavily shut behind them. America did not mind. He only wanted to be left alone.

The room was fancier than anywhere they had been in the district, with thick carpets, deeply coloured wallpaper, and velvet couches. They had been given a meagre hour to wish their friends and family farewell. America knew no one would come for them.

He sunk distractedly into the couch, drawing patterns in the fabric with a finger as Canada paced the length of the room, anxiously nibbling at his thumbnail. Eventually, Canada shuffled to the door and tried the knob. It must have turned unimpeded, since America heard tense conversation.

Canada was begging, the other voice low, clipped, and menacing. Vaguely, America felt he should stand and assist his brother, but the thought joined the rest of his numbed world in the distance.

_ They were going to the Hunger Games. _

Shock prevented him from doing much else than listen to the inner voice. It would not silence itself, nor loosen its grip on him, and his distractingly churning stomach did nothing to help. Somewhere back in reality, a door banged into place.

Canada suddenly slumped into the seat next to him, his small burst of confidence deflating with a sigh. His appearance did not draw America’s eyes from the trails he had drawn in the fabric of the couch.

“They’re not letting me see my patients,” Canada huffed, making conversation almost to no one, as America did not react. He hunched, hands rubbing at his face. “Some of them are so sick, I hope they’ll be alright…”

When America still did not respond, Canada turned to his brother, perturbed by the silence. He inched closer.

“Hey,” Canada began, leaning forward to see America’s face. “Al, please look at me.” When he didn’t, Canada settled for placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll figure it all out,” he told him. “We’re still together, so let’s focus on that, eh?”

America remained still for a few moments, then turned to capture his brother in a hug.

“You’re right,” he let out a deep sigh. “We’re going to win this thing together, Mattie. You and me, I promise.” Canada chuckled uncertainly, but accepted the hug. Pulling apart, their gazes met. The faraway look clouding America’s eyes had dispersed, not a single spot of doubt spoiling the determined gleam replacing it. If they were going to win, he had to truly believe it.

His resolve brought a smile to Canada’s lips. He hoped - for both their sakes - that this would be a promise they could keep. America returned the smile with a grin of his own.

Together, they sat in silence to wait. When the Peacekeepers returned, they herded America and Canada briskly from the building and into an awaiting car, where they sat in tense silence, watching the passing buildings of their district for what may be the last time.

Reporters and cameras met them at the train station. Canada gave a shy smile, while America was determined to keep his expression confident and unwavering, chin raised despite the fear turning his stomach. At some point, Effie joined them, prancing through the crowd to an open door of the train car.

The moment they crossed the frame, the door slid shut, the train jolting forward. Both brothers stumbled before catching their balance, Effie already marching down the hall with clipped steps and disappearing into the train car. America and Canada shared a short look, then followed.

The room was fit for royalty, with heavy paneled walls, sparkling floors, huge, spotless glass windows, and fancy furniture. Appetizers had been laid across a long table, and a variety of drinks in tall serving containers clinked with the movement of the train. Having just left the dirty, coal-coated streets of District 12, America only found it disgusting.

Sobbing near the doorway turned their attention, the female twins - Dawn and Ava Peeke - standing huddled and terrified, faces puffy from the farewell with their parents and older sister. Canada knew the family well, and could only imagine their last moments together. Saddened, he wrapped his arms around the two girls. They clung to him, tears streaming in the safety of the hug. He did not speak, but was a welcomed comfort both children desperately needed.

The room remained in awkward silence, but for the hum of the train and the young tributes’ sniffling. America kept an untrustworthy eye on Effie, who had remained uncharacteristically silent. Her happy demeanor had vanished with the cameras, and she watched the children cry into Canada’s shirt with a sobered expression, shoulders slouched and looking much older than American knew she was.

They were soon joined by another. On the far end of the compartment, a door slid open, a stocky man with jaw-length blond hair stumbling through. Canada and the girls broke their hug to stare at the newcomer. Bloodshot eyes surveyed the tributes from beneath greasy bangs, and the man scoffed.

“More lambs for the slaughter,” he mumbled through a dismissive swig from the flask in his hand. America’s eyes narrowed threateningly. He knew this man - how could he not? Town drunk extraordinaire, embarrassment of District 12, and currently the only surviving district Hunger Games victor. Haymitch Abernathy. The man who was to mentor them for the upcoming games.

They had not even started, and already he had lost faith in them. Anger bubbled in America’s chest.

“We have a chance!” he burst out, loud and determined, startling the girls at Canada’s side. “Mattie and I are going to win!”

“Are you, now?” The reply dripped with sarcasm. Haymitch’s arm swung out, motioning to Canada. “You and blondie over there? You’re going to cut down the forty-six people necessary to win? Maybe my math isn’t quite as good as it used to be, but it seems the odds aren’t quite  _ in your favour. _ ”

The rage in America’s stomach turned white-hot, boiling over as he crossed the compartment in a few short strides. The bottle clutched in Haymitch’s hand crashed to the ground as America knocked his arms aside, pinning him by his collar to the wall. Haymitch’s breath reeked of liquor.

“ _ We are going to win. _ ” he hissed into the man’s face. “Just you wait and see.”

The initial surprise dropped from Haymitch’s face, and he glared into America’s eyes with contempt. Finally, he turned his head away, wiggling until the fingers untangled from his collar. 

“That’s what  _ they _ thought, too,” he grumbled, the door sliding shut behind him. Smoke practically rose from America’s ears as those remaining in the room stared silently where Haymitch had disappeared.

Effie gave a lung-emptying sigh, interrupting America’s fuming.

“Dinner is in an hour,” she murmured, departing the compartment as well. “Do what you please, so long as you’re back by then.”

The swishing door left the tributes in silence until Ava’s sniffling turned Canada to her. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he gave a sad smile, carefully wiping the tears gathered at the corners of her eyes with his thumb. Ava provided a watery smile in return.

Unable to stand the sombre mood, America shook his anger, doing what he does best and burying his emotions beneath false cheer.

“Hey, y’know what we should do?” The others looked to him in surprise. “We should explore! No point staying cooped up here, who knows what there is to discover on this fancy train!”

Exchanging a short look with her sister, Dawn moved to America’s side, accepting the distraction as Ava meekly nodded agreement. With a forced smile, America turned on the spot, examining the two doors. Determining no one to be better than the other, he faced Dawn.

“Rock, paper, scissors! If I win, we’ll go that way,” he pointed to Haymitch’s door, then swung his hand to Effie’s. “And if you win, we’ll take that one.”

Instantly complying, Dawn raised her fist. Defeating America with paper, he made a dramatic show of defeat with a hand on his chest and the other swinging to his forehead. Ava giggled from Canada’s side.

Dawn led the way through Effie’s door, the others close behind. They raced down the halls, throwing open doors to game rooms, libraries, living rooms, and even a compartment with a hot tub. Finally, they came to a vacant bedroom. A king-sized bed at the head of the green-themed room barely covered half the space, with dark ebony furniture spread about and a private bathroom to the side. The tributes’ attentions were immediately drawn to the huge walk-in closet.

Ava and Dawn pranced between the rows of colourful Capitol clothing, running their hands along the odd fabrics and flamboyant accessories. Their distraction was soothing, and America shot Canada a mischievous glance, snatching a fluorescent pink, feathered hat off a hook. Silently, he snuck up to Ava and brought it down over her head. Squealing, she grabbed a hat of her own, charging at America and wrestling him to the ground until the blue bowler rested on his head.

Instantly, the bedroom was a warzone. Hats and clothes and accessories they did not know how to use were their weapons, flying about as they exchanged outfits and laughter. As America and Dawn jumped on the bed, making fools of themselves in cheetah-print coats and sparkly pants, a down pillow tore open and showered feathers over the room. Ava shrieked from where she was forcing honey-yellow high heels on Canada’s feet, leaping into the fray and tossing the feathers back into the air with her sister.

Their laughter was happy, their plight momentarily forgotten. Canada looked up at America from where he remained on the carpet, giving a grateful smile when their eyes met. America returned it.

Playtime ended with the arrival of Effie Trinket. Expecting a lecture, America opened his mouth to take the blame, but stopped when a kind smile grew on her face. Her eyes travelled the mess of the bedroom, ending with the mismatched clothing they wore. With a playful shake of her head, she turned back to the door.

“Get dressed and wash your hands, children,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s time for dinner.”

Disappearing as quickly as she came, the tributes shared a perplexed look. The remaining silence was broken only by laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My opinion of these first handful of chapters fluctuates, but I think building the characters is important to better deliver the payoff of the games. I'm definitely much more proud of the later chapters :')


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Effie and Haymitch... This is a good time to admit that I haven't spent much time in the HG fandom, so I'm purely using canon material as a base for my characterisations. I hope I'm not making an big HG fandom faux-pas!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: non-graphic discussion of violence and murder, brief mention of planned suicide

Dinner was tense and uneventful. The air around the table - where Ava and Dawn sat side-by-side with America and Canada opposite to them, Effie and Haymitch each taking an end - could be cut with a knife. The young girls did not seem to notice, scarfing down the endless courses with thin pleasure.

With Effie and Haymitch present, America had nothing to say, tongue held as he sliced aggravatedly at the veal on his plate. Next to him, Canada also remained silent, halfheartedly pushing food around with a fork. No one attempted to break the silence.

When dessert came and went, Haymitch stood sharply, stalking from the dining car without acknowledging his dinner mates. With him gone, Effie cleared her throat.

“How was it?” she asked, directed at the girls who sat respectfully behind cleaned bowls of ice cream.

“So good!” they cheered together, relieved for conversation.

“We’ve never eaten anything like that before!” Ava added excitedly. Effie gave a genuine smile, turning to the brothers.

“How about you, boys?” She eyed Canada’s barely-touched food. “Matthew, dear, you barely ate. Are you feeling alright?”

He looked sheepishly up from his lap. “I’m sorry,” he apologised politely, “it was very good, but I just wasn’t really hungry...”

America sensed a half-truth from his brother, but decided not to mention it. “It was great,” he lied instead, rubbing circles over the lead weight in his stomach. “I haven’t eaten that well in… well, forever.”

Tall with pride, Effie delicately dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a cloth. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. Standing, she placed her handkerchief on her plate. “Now, how about we watch the reruns of the day’s events? A little TV will help with digestion.”

Having not focused on the reapings, America knew it would be an opportunity to get a sense for the competition. But truthfully, the tributes from District 8 had yet to leave his mind. He needed another look, either to quell the doubt of their identities or prove what he half-hoped was simply a mistake. Attempting to catch his brother’s eye, America shrugged when Canada did not raise his gaze from his abandoned food.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” he said, answering for them both. As a last thought, he smirked at Effie, “I was kind of distracted the first time.”

Looking slightly ashamed, Effie, to her credit, did not take America’s bait, turning instead to Dawn and Ava. “Would you like to join us?” The two girls shared a look, glancing briefly at America before nodding their agreement.

Moving to the den, America took the end of the couch, with Canada next to him and the girls on his other side. Effie perched in an armchair as she flicked through channels with the huge flat-screen TV’s remote. Finally, the reapings appeared, beginning with President Snow’s speech, his gravelly voice slicing like a blade down America’s back. 

“ _On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the defeat of the rebels, the tributes will be drawn from the paired names of twins, a pair of girls and a pair of boys, between the ages of twelve and thirty.”_

The words sent shivers from his chest to the tips of America’s limbs. As it had earlier that day, his focus slipped, heart speeding at the memory. He snapped himself back to attention in time to catch the tail-end of the speech.

 _“The pairs will work as a single unit, being eligible for victory alone or together._ ”

America’s heart flipped in his chest.

_“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour.”_

Relief flooded his veins. His attention had slipped at the reaping, and he had no recollection of those words. Of that one in particular.

_Together._

Sneaking a glance at Canada, whose jaw was set and eyes shielded behind the glare of his glasses, America felt his muscles relax.

_Together. We can win together._

Either way, he would have protected them both to the end. But now, he would not have to take his own life to save his brother’s - a plan he’d been nurturing since earlier that day. They could go home together, just as he’d promised. He tried to ignore the guilt, pushing the children curled against Canada’s side to the back of his mind. Mentally brushing off the thoughts, he sharpened his attention to the screen once again, joining his brother on the edge of his seat as they weighed the competition. A few stood out to America from those called up a pair at a time.

From District 1, a set of huge men with slicked brown hair volunteered, followed immediately by a confident, fire-haired girl from District 2. She dragged her twin to the stage, who begged and cried in her sister’s grip. The announcers named them as Glitz, who had planned on volunteering for her final year in the reaping, and a much weepier Dazz.

It was cruel of her as a sister, and Canada tensed against America’s side. Neither could imagine doing such a thing to each other.

The reapings continued. Two boys with darting eyes from District 3 held an air of dangerous intelligence. The bold attitudes of the girls from District 4 - fraternal twins, America noticed - caught his eye, and he figured they could back it up. They should avoid attacking the burly women with crooked noses from 7 head-on. As the district numbers rose, America did his best to keep track of all their competitors, but felt himself losing focus. Thinking and planning had never been his forte, but he trusted Canada had already made mental profiles for each of them, anyway.

Finally, the moment he had been awaiting came. Leaning in to better see, he followed Lovino and Feliciano Vargas with his eyes as they were led to the stage. When the brother with hair a tone darker glared daggers into the camera through hazel eyes, there was no second guessing. Without the adrenaline of the reaping clouding his mind, America was capable of clear, coherent thought.

And that was Romano and Italy.

When the images changed to those of District 9, America flopped back into the couch. He and Canada were not alone. The Italies were alive.

And they would be at the Hunger Games too.

Would America and Canada have to fight them? Hurt them? _Kill_ them? After not seeing another of the Nation People for seventy-five years?

 _If we want to win, there will have to be sacrifices,_ he thought involuntarily. _We won’t die, which means Italy and Romano have to._

America forced his mind to a halt. What was he thinking? While his delusions of heroism were years faded, he could not wish death upon his kind. There had to be another way. He mulled his options as the program continued, but no matter what he devised, the same conclusion remained: the moment they were lifted into the arena, it was all over. Nothing could be done; only one set of siblings would come out alive.

For it to be him and Canada, what kind of decisions would they have to make? Haymitch was right. To walk out of the arena, they would have to do so over the corpses of forty-six people. _Their_ people.

He was saved from his thoughts when everyone stood from their seats. The screen went dark as Effie bid them goodnight, and Canada was leading Ava and Dawn from the room with a caring hand on each of their backs. At the door, he paused to glance at America over his shoulder.

“I’m going to get them settled,” he said. “I’ll see you later?”

Distractedly, America nodded. After a quick smile, Canada guided the girls down the hall. With nothing to do alone, America pushed himself to his feet, following at a slower pace to search for his own room. 

When he found it, identical to the one they had trashed but in red, he tossed his dinner clothes in a pile, changing into a soft pair of pajamas following a shower. After brushing his teeth, he crawled into bed, fully expecting sleep to escape him. But with the covers pulled to his chin, the day’s exhaustion immediately caught up.

The train’s hum was comforting, the steady clacking of rails lulling him towards sleep. Despite it, his mind wandered behind tired eyes. By this time the next day, he would be in the Capitol. The following week, the arena. What kind of arena would it be, he wondered? Desert? Mountain? Forest?

He hoped it would be forest.

Would he have killed anyone by this time? Perhaps he himself would be dead. Maybe Canada would be injured, or simply gone. The thought that either of them had less than a week left of life tightened a vice over his heart. Neither of them knew what would happen if they were killed now. Their land still existed - but without their countries, were they mortal?

As if summoned by his worries, the door to America’s room hissed open, and he recognised the soft steps of his brother. Canada padded towards him barefoot with blue-plaid pajamas and shower-dampened hair, lips quirking gratefully as America lifted the covers for him. Settling in silence, both minds worked over the day and those to come, before Canada’s voice brought them together.

“Could it really be them?” he whispered, like sharing a precious secret.

“Who?” America asked, though he knew. He needed to hear his brother say it first.

“Lovino and… and Feliciano?”

Heavy silence fell again, America replaying the reaping over and over in his mind. Each time only convinced him further.

“Yeah, it was them.” It changed everything they had come to believe after seven decades. “No way it wasn’t.”

“If they’re alive, do you think…” Canada’s voice dropped so low, America strained to hear it. “...the others?”

Truthfully, America did not know the answer. The appearance of Italy and Romano proved they were not alone, but could they assume there were others? Or was it merely a chance meeting of two lone pairs of survivors?

When he did not receive a response, Canada gave a low sigh, burying himself deeper into the blankets.

“Hey,” America tried, “when this is over, when we win, we can go look for them. We’ll leave no stone unturned, search the Capitol, the districts, everywhere. If the others are alive, we’ll find them.”

Canada’s nose appeared over the lip of the blanket as he met America’s eyes.

“Alfred…” his voice was hesitant, chilling America’s blood. “Even if we win - if we survive - _he’_ s going to recognise us. He won’t lose track a second time.” 

Canada’s voice cracked. “Alfred, I don’t think we’re ever going to be free again.”

America pondered his brother’s words long after Canada had drifted into a restless sleep. A stone of worry formed in his stomach, because Canada was right. Panem had seen them. He’d been watching from the moment their names had been drawn. Hell, he was probably watching them now. They’d leave his sight only in coffins.

As he succumbed to sleep, America felt the prickle of eyes on his skin, storm grey and cold as the day they betrayed him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Romano. What a bastard.  
> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: swearing.

They had been on the goddamned train for hours, and Romano was sick of it. He was sick of the Capitol pig who had reaped their names, sick of the woman who claimed to be their “mentor” - a delusional old scrooge who reminded him just a little too much of the vodka bastard’s sister, - and sick of the hags whose names had been drawn with them. He just wanted to go home, wherever the hell home was now.

Italy sat next to him in the dining car, nibbling happily away at the pasta he requested  _ for breakfast. _ The hags were across from them, scarfing down food like they had never eaten in their lives. Considering how they had aged, it wouldn’t surprise Romano if that were the case. Barely thirty, already their ponytailed hair had greyed and creases webbed the skin of their faces. Nevermind the stocky, although malnourished, strength of their bodies. They must have carried crates for the transport stage of the factories.

Adjacent from them sat the mentors, the woman only half-partaking in the conversation, the senile old man mumbling incoherently to himself. Alone to his side of the table, the Capitol escort sat tall as he elegantly cut at his food. Romano had not bothered retaining his name, referring to him only as ‘Studs’ due to the sheer number of piercings dotting his face. The loops around his bottom lip were so ugly, Romano had to restrain the urge to tear them out.

The female tributes shot endless questions towards the mentors between bites. The droning of their voices and the half-assed replies buzzed in Romano’s skull, ruining the perfect opportunity to stuff his face in silence. More annoying than their disrupting his breakfast was the  _ nature _ of their questions. Non-stop  _ how do we find food? How should we purify water? How do we make shelter? _

Ugh.

He would rather die than think of the games. In a week’s time, his wish would even be granted. Angrily, he stabbed his fork into the ham on his plate. No one paid him any attention. Italy was humming. Romano tore a piece off the ham with his teeth. Studs animatedly gossiped about his neighbour in the Capitol. The questions droned on. Romano, shaking with rage, swallowed the food in his mouth. The old man’s mumbling rose to a distressed wail. Romano’s eye gave a violent twitch.

“How do we survive?” Hag-Number-One shrilled, soon followed by a stupid, monotone reply for a stupid question. Studs went on about the best brands of hair dye. Italy rocked back and forth in his chair, humming upgraded to singing. Pressure built in Romano’s chest.

“What should be our biggest concern?” Hag-Number-Two. The female mentor’s nails clicked incessantly on the table. The old man’s mumbling became more urgent as he registered the question. The woman snapped at him. The pressure gave way to an explosion.

Standing sharply, Romano’s fist slammed down on the table, clinking silverware and sending his chair clattering to the floor. Enough was enough.

“Everyone  _ shut up! _ ” His voice was high as he screamed, piercing the air. He violently faced the hags in the newfound silence; even the old man had ceased his rambling. “You want to know what your biggest fucking concern is!? You’re going to the  _ Hunger Games! _ What’s even the point? You’ll have fucking  _ heart attacks _ before the countdown ends,  _ grandmas. _ ”

His outburst was met with momentary silence, before the female tributes shot to their feet as well, hands hitting the table as they shrieked in anger. They screamed furiously, but Romano had already stomped to the door. It slid shut behind him, cutting off their growled insults as he stalked to his room.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

All of it was stupid. The train was stupid, the humans on board were stupid, and he and Italy being reaped was stupid. Scratch that, the  _ Hunger Games _ were stupid. The Capitol was stupid, this country was stupid, and Panem could go choke on an apple. The whole  _ world _ could choke on an apple, for all Romano cared. It’s not like it mattered much anymore, anyway.

Burying his face into his pillow, Romano let out an aggravated groan. Why had this happened? Why did they have to change the rules? He and Italy were supposed to be safe from the Hunger Games. It was the single respite in their pitiful existences.

The only positive Romano could see was the end to the dull, monotonous lives they led.  _ Obsolete _ had become the perfect word to describe them, but they had been scared to stop, afraid of what would come after. No choice now. The train was the hearse carrying them to their graves.

Who knew? Maybe after they died, they could see the others again. Maybe that jerk bastard Spain would be waiting for him on the other side, ready to stuff a tomato down his throat and be otherwise generally infuriating. Perhaps Grandpa Rome would give him a lecture on his uselessness. Romano wouldn't take that lying down, so he’d take it as a challenge. The banter would be welcomed, compared to the shithole that had been made of the world.

The door slid open soon after, and Italy pranced into the room. 

“Why did you leave,  _ fratellino? _ Breakfast was so much fun! Did you know that Bernina and Janome - those are the other twins, I know you didn’t remember their names - have a  _ cat? _ Oh, I wish I could have seen it! I bet it was fluffy and soft and-” His voice became louder as he skipped to the bedside. Romano only dug his face deeper into his pillow, hoping Italy would take a hint for once and leave him to sulk alone. He didn’t give two damns about the hags, and would have gladly kicked any mangy cat they owned to the moon. “-there are chocolate fountains and  _ huge _ towers of food! Did you know truffle cakes aren’t made with truffles? The mushrooms, not the chocolates.”

Romano was not following his brother’s rambling, and chose the cold-shoulder approach to dealing with him. He loved Italy, but seventy-five years of  _ only him _ was enough to drive anyone insane. And Romano couldn’t exactly make any human friends, what with the whole  _ eternal-youth _ deal.

Sudden silence and the sinking of the mattress sealed his fate to conversation.

“ _ Fratellino? _ ” Italy’s voice sobered, the tone low and caring. Romano tensed, surprised by the change. Should he answer? Continue with his stubborn silence? Apparently tired of waiting, Italy tried again. “Lovi…” His hand appeared on Romano’s shoulder, nudging him onto his side to face him.

“Lovino, what’s wrong?” Romano felt his anger bubble again. His  _ brother _ was the real stupid here! He shot into a sitting position, hands tangling with Italy’s collar of their own minds.

“What’s wrong?  _ What’s wrong!? _ ” The growl in his throat was uncontrollable, years of building fury fueling the words. “We’re going to DIE,  _ that’s _ what’s wrong!” Tears streamed down his cheeks against his will. Damn it, he hated the world, but he didn’t want to  _ die! _ He didn’t want  _ Italy _ to die. He just wanted things to be like they were before, with stupid world meetings and bickering and a whole planet of idiots to make fun of. Italy’s hands came up to rest on Romano’s shaking arms.

“Lovi, we might win…” Italy’s voice was hesitant and sad, his eyes abandoning their usual happy squint to stare fully into Romano’s. He waited a few moments for a reaction, and when none came, he struggled to reassure the statement. “...Alfred and Matthew will be there. They’re strong, they’ll protect us…” Romano’s anger spiked, grip tightening on Italy’s collar.

“Them being there only makes it worse!” The words tore at his throat as he shouted them, resentment resparking inside him at the thought of the North Americans. “Those bastards will do away with us in a heartbeat if it furthers themselves! They’ll kill us without remorse and dance over our bodies!” Italy flinched back.

“Th-they would never do that, Lovi-”

“They kicked our asses all over Europe before, and they’ll do it again! Those two are  _ monsters! _ ” He was tired of his brother’s na i ve ignorance and false hopes. “There’s only one set of winners, Feliciano! We are going to die, and there’s nothing we can fucking do about it!” He shoved Italy back, sending him tumbling to the floor. Tears that had been gathering in the corners of Italy’s eyes flowed freely, his lip trembling heavily as he looked into Romano’s eyes with uncertainty and…  _ fear _ .

Romano instantly felt bad, but that idiot needed to get their impending deaths into his thick skull. America would never let the two of them win over him and his brother. If given trust, they’d stab the Italies in the back. There was no doubt.

Italy suddenly stood, body shaking through sobs and tears, wordlessly fleeing from Romano’s room. The door slid shut behind him, and Romano slumped lifelessly into the mattress of his bed. This whole situation was fucked up. An apology was in order, but he was too upset to care.

They were going to die. They were going to be killed in horrible, painful ways. Whatever remained of their mangled bodies would be paraded around, gawked at like some festival float. He was no fool; his country was gone, there were no second chances this time. These were the final days of his centuries-long existence on this God-forsaken planet. 

His last days with Italy.

_ And you are spending it fighting with him,  _ a voice sounding too much like Spain’s nagged in his head. With a sigh, he forced himself deeper into the bed. 

Maybe he would apologize later.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally arriving at the Capitol. This is also finally the end of Part 1 - next time, preparation for the games begins. It took much longer than I thought to get to this point, but hopefully the next few chapters will be more interesting, since stuff actually happens ;^;  
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: none.

Canada rubbed his heavy stomach, the pancakes he had picked apart for breakfast sitting like lead in its pits. Centuries ago, when his country had thrived, he had been careful to eat only as much as his general populace. The people of the districts most certainly did not enjoy the delicacies offered on the train, and the meals felt more shameful than filling.

He had left America and the girls to their created game that appeared to be a mix of go-fish and wrestling, as far as Canada could tell. Padding alone down the hall, he poked his head into every vacant, lonely room he passed, searching with his eyes before moving to the next. Eventually, he came to the compartment in which they had watched the reapings the previous night. The blinds over the windows had all been drawn, the light from the TV’s screen casting ominous, flickering shadows in the darkness of the room. His target sat at a bar in the corner, hunched over a glass and glaring at the program from the corner of his eye.

The disgruntled expression on Haymitch’s face turned Canada’s attention to the television, recaps from the previous year’s games jumping about as a narrator inserted comments, the volume too low to make out words. When Katniss and Peeta’s faces appeared, dirty and afraid and considering the dangerous berries held between them, the images snapped to black with a  _ click, _ the remote clattering against the far wall.

Growling as he returned to his glass, Haymitch downed the contents in a single gulp before refilling it from a nearby bottle. Quietly, Canada crossed the room towards him, wordlessly taking a stool next to his mentor. 

“You always that quiet?” Haymitch spoke without looking at him. His voice was hoarse, a saw blade through the silence.

“It’s a bit of a talent of mine.” Canada chuckled lightly. Grunting in response, Haymitch relapsed to a moment of silence before speaking again.

“Might save you in the arena.” He took another swig of his drink. Quiet gripped the clipped conversation again. With a small sigh, Canada filled an empty, crystal glass half-way with the content of Haymitch’s bottle. It smelled strong and stung his nose, but was not overall unwelcome. His mentor made no attempt to stop him, but cast a glance in his direction.

“How old are you anyway, kid?” Canada almost laughed. He had lived Haymitch’s lifetime dozens of times over.

“But a number,” he joked through a soft smile, “I think I deserve a drink.” He was met with several moments of quiet contemplation. 

“Mister Abernathy?” Canada tried over the hum of the train and occasional clinks of glass on polished wood.

“Don’t call me that,” Haymitch practically barked.

“A-alright. Haymitch…” he inhaled deeply, unsure how to breach the subject, “...we can’t win without your help.” Haymitch remained silent, staring deeply into his recently-refilled glass.

“My help isn’t worth anything,” he finally grumbled. “I can’t save anyone.” Canada waited patiently, but the conversation lulled once again.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Haymitch’s eyes remained buried in his liquor even when Canada spoke.

“What does it matter whose fault it was?” His voice wavered with subdued anger. “There are two more kids in the dirt.” Humming contemplatively, Canada turned to look at Haymitch, who stubbornly did not return the gaze.

“There will always be more people in the dirt, Haymitch. That doesn’t mean we can stop fighting.” Canada slumped in his seat, hands cupping his glass on the table. “If we do, their deaths would mean nothing. That does them no favour.” Canada chuckled darkly, speaking the thoughts barely keeping him alive.

“My...  _ father _ once told me that. He believed in such things: that we could fight, and one day win. After everything he’d seen, everything he’d been through, it’s a mystery to me how he could still believe in miracles.”

Haymitch finally looked up from his cup, staring at the young face next to him. Violet eyes had become distant, the pale skin beneath stained with dark bags as they gazed into the undulations of his drink. Despite his apparent youth, Canada’s shoulders arched down with aged fatigue. 

“Why are you lecturing me, kid?” Haymitch finally asked. A deep hum in his throat, Canada’s tired eyes lifted until they met with Haymitch’s.

“Despite what Alfred says, we need your help. We can’t get sponsors without you.” He broke their eye contact then, sheepish. “And… you remind me of someone I once loved. I can’t help but want to cheer you up.”

Haymitch turned away, unsettled by the haunted look. Caring was something he did not need, not for a dead man walking. All the tributes he had ever come to care for ended the same.

_ But maybe… _

Suddenly, Haymitch stood, stumbling to the door with drink in hand. Intending to simply leave, he found his feet halting just within the entrance. His lips moved without him truly ordering them to.

“Y’know what, I’ll think about it, since you asked so nicely.” Without looking back, he marched into the light of the hall.

Now alone, Canada refilled his glass, a slight smile touching his lips. Sitting perfectly still, he closed his eyes and retreated into his mind, allowing himself a rare pause of remembrance.

\----

“Mattie! Come look at this!” America’s voice woke Canada from his thoughts some time later. Abandoning his empty glass, he met America and the girls in the living room. They were crowded around the window, and America vigorously waved for Canada to join them.

Peering over their shoulders, he craned his neck to look in the direction the train traveled. The wall of rock before them placed a bittersweet smile on his face.

“Rockies!” America shouted near his ear, a pitch too high to be completely genuine. Canada understood. The last time they had seen the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, it had been alight with the flames of a disastrous battle, the rebel forces decimated under the Capitol’s airstrikes as they attempted to cross into the city.

The train pitched into the darkness of a tunnel. The Capitol sat nestled safely within the confines of the mountains, and when next they broke into the light of day, the city would be laid before them. Ava and Dawn pranced about, sharing tales and imaginings of the city that existed only as a fairytale to the citizens of the districts. America and Canada watched in silence, only replying when addressed as they rambled.

During their excitement, the train barreled out of the tunnel, the bright sunlight piercing the tributes’ eyes as they crowded around the window again. The train swooped a wide arc, skirting along a dammed lake, the city sprawled along its far edge for the tributes to see. Tall, shining buildings reached fingers into the sky, full of vibrant colours, lively movement, and bustling activity. The city’s style would once have been called  _ modern _ by the old world, but was a fantasy future in comparison to the rest of Panem.

America and Canada felt their jaws open in quiet awe. This was the place they had fought so hard and failed to reach, only to arrive seventy-five years later as prisoners on a train. As they maneuvered through the city, Capitol citizens recognized the passing tribute train, pointing and waving excitedly at the pseudo-celebrities. Ava and Dawn returned the actions, laughing in admiration for the bustling city around them.

The sickening beauty of the Capitol vanished behind the walls of the train station. Canada and America shared a furtive look, the weight of the situation quickly settling between the two of them. America gave a tense smile.

“Welcome to the Capitol.”


	8. PART 2 - CAPITOL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Part 2! This next handful of chapters are dedicated to feeling out the characters, sizing up the competition, and preparing for the games. Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of nudity.

PART 2 - CAPITOL

America and Canada stood together in a bland room of the Remake Centre, the only furniture a tall, stainless-steel table that neither brother approached. They had been in the Capitol for no more than an hour, and already preparations for the opening ceremonies had begun, their clothes and bodily imperfections stripped away by a prep team who’d abandoned them as they awaited further treatment. The girls had been whisked elsewhere, no doubt to receive similar makeovers.

Lean and nude, Canada, with his cheeks flushed, stood hunched as he tried to conceal himself, one hand rubbing absently over the numb skin of his now-hairless arm. America felt heat on his own face, but did his best to stand confidently nonetheless. Pores over every part of him stung after having the hair torn out, and being naked left him feeling vulnerable. He had done his best to avoid the examining eyes and probing hands of the prep team, focusing instead on rubbing his thumb over the surface of his pin, which he had grabbed from his pocket before being undressed.

America turned to the door that had swallowed the prep team in a flamboyant parade of colour and strange devices, hoping their stylists would be arriving soon. The air was chilling to his bare flesh.

As if summoned by the thought, the door opened, revealing two people. The first was a young man, chocolate skin and dark hair offset by the green of his eyes and gold swirls of facepaint on his temple. America knew this man from the television - Cinna, the prodigy who had garnered a reputation as Katniss’ stylist. Apparently, he’d become quite the celebrity in the Capitol after his success with the previous year’s games. Cinna was followed closely by a younger woman of Asian descent who was no older than twenty-five. Everything about her was pink but for her skin itself, and her huge, bubblegum hair bounced with every click of heeled feet.

“Hello Alfred, Matthew. My name is Cinna.” His voice was a pleasant mixture of calm and kind, and he extended his hand welcomingly towards America. Distrustfully, America shook it, before Canada took his turn. Cinna gestured to the woman. “This is Ayano, she is my assistant this year.”

The girl gave a short bow as she skipped around the naked boys, taking notes on her clipboard as she examined them. Canada shied away from her, hiding further behind his brother. Feeling a deepening heat on his cheeks, America resolved not to show weakness, but the old trick of picturing the stylists in their underwear only made the situation worse. 

With a chuckle, Cinna stepped forward. While Ayano’s eyes burned the flesh they landed on, the young man’s presence was friendly and without malice.

“We’re just going to take some measurements so we can make clothes that fit,” Cinna explained. He flashed them a playful wink. “Don’t be shy, we’ve seen it all before!”

Despite himself, America smirked. He decided he didn’t mind Cinna. The man may have been working for the Capitol, and by extension Panem, but his amicable aura held no detectable ill will. 

The few minutes with the stylists were lined with conversation, Cinna seeming genuine in his interest in their personal lives. Once finished, he handed them both soft, baby-blue robes, which they gratefully put on. After a quick meal in a comfortable living area, the stylists moved to another set of doors across from which they had entered. Cinna waved the tributes over with his chin.

“We’re going to see you separately now, to make final decisions surrounding your outfits.” America and Canada’s eyes darted to meet each other and America felt himself tense, until Cinna placed comforting hands on each of their shoulders. “It won’t be for long. You’ll see each other again soon.”

Ayano stepped forward, heels clicking and hair bouncing. Perfectly manicured hands wrapped around Canada’s elbow, pulling him towards one of the doors.

“You’ll be with me, Mr. Williams.” Thickened pink lips split into a grin as she tugged him forward. Canada shot America a distressed look over his shoulder, begging with his eyes to not let him be sent off. Feeling unable to do much else, America gave him an uncertain smile and a double thumbs-up, which only got him an unimpressed scowl in return.

Once Canada and his stylist were out of sight, Cinna led America through their own door and into another bland room, motioning for him to sit on the raised table in the centre. He complied, fighting not to drop his confident posture but keeping his gaze planted on where his hands fiddled with his pin in his lap. The whole situation felt very real, suddenly - America wasn’t sure if it was the air of the Capitol, the prepping for the parade, or the lack of Canada’s presence by his side, but he felt his body deflate.

A moment later, Cinna walked to him from where he had been shuffling through papers on a clipboard until they were face to face, his eyes glancing sadly over America. He stood quietly for a full minute, simply watching, the attention becoming uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you and your brother,” Cinna said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I know it doesn’t help, but I truly am.”

“Yeah, me too,” was all America could think of as a response. Cinna’s hands took his own, the gesture odd but of genuine sympathy, parting America’s fingers to reveal the flag. America did not think to fear it would be taken from him as they watched light glimmer off the gloss covering.

“It’s pretty,” Cinna told him, running his thumb over the surface. “Stars and stripes. It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah…” America paused, unsure of what else to say. “I only got it recently, but it still is. A memory of something important I lost, I guess.” He thumbed the pin in his palm distractedly, every stroke of the metal tugging him further into the past.

Smiling knowingly, Cinna gave America’s shoulder a friendly pat.

“I think I need to go and speak with the other stylists.” He turned towards the door, the skip in his step one of an inspired artist. “We’ve already discussed potential outfit designs, but I think I’ve changed my mind.”

The next hour flew by in a whirlwind of fabric and stylists, and America’s head spun. He had yet to see the final design himself, but Cinna smiled proudly as he looked him up and down. When America turned to glance at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror he had failed to notice earlier, Cinna cut him off by turning his chin away, a teasing waggle of a finger ordering him to wait for his brother.

They did not wait long, Canada emerging from his room a few minutes later. America fought not to peek at his brother’s clothes, focusing instead on his face. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. Canada’s hair had been curled at the tips, a small bundle braided and strung with beads to one side, his one untamable curl the only strand out of place. His pale skin looked even paler with the addition of makeup, and blush accentuated his cheekbones. The whole look was slightly effeminate, and Canada seemed rather embarrassed.

He stalked to America’s side, his frown and wrinkled nose convincing America to withhold comment. After signing heavily, Canada’s expression smoothed as he turned to examine them in the mirror. America followed suit, eyes traveling up and down their bodies in the mirror. He smirked at the colour scheme: navy undershirts framed by opened, deep-red leather jackets with white clasps, balanced by dark pants and off-white combat boots. Red, white, and blue.

“This is… not bad, actually.” Canada admitted. “Better than coal miners.” 

America agreed. The outfits were form-fitting in just the right ways, highlighting their toned bodies from years of hunting, gathering, and mining. The punkish leather clothing exuded confidence and strength. Though nearly mirrors of each other, the more America examined their clothes, the more subtle differences defining one brother from the other revealed themselves. Where Canada’s outfit had been tediously done up, every buckle clasped and straightened, his hair brushed and silky-smooth, pants ironed to perfection, America’s version remained stylishly disheveled. The leather jacket’s many functionless straps had been loosened or simply not done up at all, and his hair had been stirred up as if by the breeze atop a windswept hill. 

A far door slid open then, Ava skipping towards them from the other side. Dawn marched on her tail, pace more subdued, with chuckling stylists a few paces behind. They were dressed in smaller versions of America and Canada’s outfits, with the addition of fanning blue skirts around their hips and red bows in their hair.

Canada spun Ava by her armpits when she ran to him. Replacing her down next to her calmer sister, he patted each of their heads with a proud hand.

“You both look beautiful.” he told them, returning Ava’s beaming smile. Dawn pouted, planting her fists on her hips.

“No, we look _cool_ ,” she corrected. “And strong. Like we’re gonna kick some butt.”

Momentarily, Canada fell silent, eyes distant. It took him less than a second to catch the slip and paste a smile on his lips, but not quick enough for America to have missed it.

“Of course,” Canada appeased, giving an awkward wink. “Beautiful people are often the most dangerous.” This seemed to satisfy Dawn, who joined her sister in smothering Canada in a hug.

The appearance of a young man in a finely-pressed white tunic broke them apart. He directed the group of tributes and stylists to the elevator, leading them to the bottom level of the Remake Centre. 

The large, stable-like room was alive with activity. People in colourful clothes prepared for their appearances, climbing into chariots and straightening their outfits. This would be the tributes’ first appearances to the people of the Capitol, so it was important to get it right. 

Through the crowd, America caught his first true glimpse of the Italies - they were dressed in thin, dotted robes that billowed behind them with every step, the classic pattern was surely a nod to their district’s textile focus. America’s eyes momentarily met Romano’s before the Italian scowled, snapping his gaze away. Staring in confusion at the long-lost nations, America tried not to take the rejection personally. Romano was just like that, after all. 

His focus on the Italies broke when Cinna placed a hand on his shoulder, mistaking America’s distraction for apprehension. “Don’t worry, they’ll love you.” he assured. America gave him his best grin. “That’s it, keep smiling, just like that!”

The others had already taken their places on the chariot - a dark cart with two platforms, lower in the front and the other raised in the back. Ava and Dawn stood on the first, leaning over the railing to pet the coal-black stallions ready to pull them through the Capitol. Perched a step above, Canada smiled fondly as we watched, the girls giggling as a horse shook its head to sneeze.

America climbed the step to stand with his brother. Opening music blared through the huge double doors from the city, and the first districts’ chariots already departing one after another, a short pause between each for the sake of the show.

In an uncoordinated line, the District 12 stylists waved and grinned.

“Smile, everyone!” Cinna shouted over the music and cheering. “Give them no choice but to love you!”

The chariot jerked forward, the doors growing closer. After regaining his balance, America checked on his brother, giving his hand a squeeze when he saw the other’s pale face and tight jaw. Canada smiled weakly, and met his eyes.

“Let the games begin,” Canada whispered. America understood. There would be no killing tonight, but the race had begun to be seen and supported. A scramble for the people’s love.

They turned forward, squinting against the spotlights. Beyond the Remake Centre, dusk had fallen, the navy sky stained orange with the lights of the city. Cheering crowds lined the streets, waving district flags and slamming noise-makers together. 12’s chariot crossed the doors, and the audience erupted. Capitol citizens pointed and shouted their names and district, popularity boosted from the year previous. 

The final dusting of sunlight faded, and cheers changed to sighed awe. Eyes widened, jaw nearly dropped, America saw his expression reflected on Canada’s face. Any diverted attention shifted, all eyes were on District 12; from their clothes and chariot, small, star-like lights floated on the breeze, drifting and climbing the night like a spangled banner to take their places in the sky. The cheers of the crowd returned, a powerful drug in America’s veins.

He looked to Canada, eyes and glasses speckled with the glow. The smile they shared was hopeful and resolute, and with a flick of his hand, Canada invited Ava and Dawn to join them on their platform. The four tributes stood together, netted in a sideways-hug, the air thick with stars and flowers and confetti. With their arms that weren’t tangled around the others, they waved back at the crowd. Like this, America reveled in his renewed courage. Things would have a way of working out, he truly believed it.

Their chariot joined those of the other districts in the half-moon of the City Circle, their lights still shining and collecting glares from the tributes around them. On a balcony high above, President Snow leaned forward in his perch, tapping the microphone to silence the audience.

A hush fell over the crowd as the Capitol’s anthem played. Snow spoke, but America found a target worthier of his attention. His eyes met those of cold, emotionless grey, unblinking in a silent declaration of war. With Canada’s hand firmly in his own, he could not fear the snake above.

The chariots started forward again, towards the Training Centre. America’s lips quirked up and open, flashing Panem a fearless grin before steel doors came between them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone likes Dawn and Ava well enough - they've gone though many transformations throughout the past versions of this story, and I've had a bit of a tough time with them. As the chapters got cut down to increase the pace, I'm worried a lot of their development was unfortunately lost to scraps... Hopefully they're still managing to be enjoyable characters!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: none.

The Training Centre was really only so at the basement level. Above ground, it served as living quarters for the tributes until the games began. On the twelfth floor, Effie ushered America, Canada, and the girls about, offering new clothes and having them wash up. As she worked, she chattered about anything and everything, ending with her pride in Haymitch, who had apparently spent the day networking with potential sponsors.

“I can’t place what sparked such vigour in him,” she chirped, pulling a lacey red top over Ava’s head. “I haven’t seen him this preppy in ages!”

Canada smiled knowingly as he brushed the curls from his hair, but did not comment. Following the opening ceremonies, Effie herself seemed to have perked up. Or, she was a talented actor.

By the time dinner began, they were all clean, freshly dressed, and smelling of exotic fruit. Gathering in the dining room, they were joined by the stylists, followed shortly by Haymitch, who took the head of the table. America placed himself at Canada’s elbow, instincts painfully aware of the guards in the shadows, but hoping to distract himself with the promise of food.

Once everyone was gathered and conversing amiably, men and women in tight-cut white suits poured into the room, dishes perched in their arms as they distributed food. A young woman with kind eyes circled the table, filling wine glasses. Dawn and Ava pouted as she passed them, their glasses left empty. They turned to Canada imploringly.

“Can we have some too?” Dawn begged.

“We’ve never had wine before!” Ava added.

Canada gave a disapproving look, replacing his glass on the table. “No, this is for adults,” he declared firmly. The girls gave a whine, and America noticed with amusement the twitch of Canada’s brow as he held his ground.

“Come on, Mattie,” America gave him a light punch to the shoulder. “A little wine won’t hurt them!” Canada shot him a glare.

“They’re only twelve, Alfred,” he reminded.

“Aw, let ‘em live a little!” A low blow with the upcoming events, perhaps, but it did the trick. Canada turned to the girls again, an unimpressed look on his face. Dawn and Ava brought their hands together over their chins, batting their eyelashes beggingly. With a sigh, Canada caved.

“Fine, I suppose a little won’t hurt.” He motioned for the wine-bearing girl to return, and took the bottle with a nod of thanks. Into each of the girls’ glasses, he poured a splash of wine. They wailed at the meagre servings.

“Start with that,” Canada reasoned with another sigh. “See if you like it first.”

The table had fallen silent, the others watching the familial exchange with adoring smiles.

“We’ll have to play that up,” Haymitch mused. His tablemates nodded their approval, to the confusion of the tributes.

“Well then, I declare it strategy time!” Effie sang, dabbing her mouth with a damp towelette. “The next few days are going to be quite exciting!”

“Exciting, sure.” Haymitch sighed, rubbing at his face. His eyes swept over the tributes. “From now until the arena, we’re playing a game of politics, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Unanimously, the table nodded.

“Over the next few days, you’ll be in the training room. You can learn new skills that’ll be crucial to your survival in the arena. The other tributes will be with you.” Haymitch stroked the stubble on his chin as he spoke, leaning back in his chair contemplatively. “After that, interviews. We need to make you distinct from the others, without planting targets on your heads.” 

“Well, you’re lucky!” Effie chimed in. “People adore twins. You’ll be wonderful!”

Haymitch scoffed. “The only problem is that there are twenty-two other pairs of them.” His gaze drifted up in thought for a moment, before he sat up sharply in his seat, looking at Dawn and Ava.

“Out of all the tributes, you two are the youngest-”

“-and the cutest!” Effie pitched in. 

Groaning, Haymitch continued. “...right, so keep doing that. Talk together, finish each other’s sentences, hang off one another, you get the idea. You two,” he turned to America and Canada, “will play opposites.”

They glanced at one another, before looking to Haymitch for clarification. He pointed at Canada.

“Matthew, you’re calm and reserved. Keep up that mama’s-boy gig you’ve got going on.” Canada sputtered, but Haymitch continued over him, moving to America. “Alfred, you’re the louder, confident-bordering-cocky one. Don’t overplay it too much, we don’t want to come across as rude.”

A buzz of chuckles rose from the table, the stylists unable to hold their laughter at Canada’s embarrassment and America’s puffed chest.

“ _ Mmf. _ ” One of the girls said suddenly. Dawn exposed her tongue in displeasure and Ava’s cheeks were puffed, her eyes meeting Canada’s in a plea for help. Abandoning his embarrassment, Canada sighed in defeat.

“Spit it back into your glass,” he permitted. Wine fell from Ava’s lips, a few drops sticking to her tongue as she shoved the glass away. She nabbed her previously rejected orange juice and gulped it down, the cup slamming to the tablecloth.

“That’s  _ gross! _ ” she shouted, her sister vigorously nodding agreeance. Another of Canada’s sighs sent the table into a new fit of laughter, everyone returning to their own pleasant conversations. 

Disinterested in those around him, America’s attention drifted as he ate. In a few days, the games would begin. He had desperately searched for a means of escape, hoping still for there to be a way out, but so far they had been monitored like the prisoners they were. Guards were always present, lurking and out of sight, a simple illusion of freedom.

Like it or not, they were going to the games. The only thing to do was plan for victory. The Italies should definitely be recruited - having two more near-immortals on their side would be beneficial, especially if they needed to protect the girls. They couldn’t abandon the kids, after all - Canada would never allow it. He ran scenarios through his mind until he grew frustrated, happy for when dinner concluded around him.

Effie and the stylists had already excused themselves, disappearing to their quarters as servants cleared the table. Haymitch dismissed the girls soon after, and they reluctantly left when he wanted to speak to America and Canada alone. Following a moment of tense silence, Haymitch cleared his throat.

“Alright, this is how it’s going to work. Three days of training, wrapping up with your private sessions. You’ll be going in together, so it’ll be a two-player show.” This all-business side of Haymitch was new to them, but they listened intently. “What do you have for skills?”

America and Canada shared a long look. They had many, the benefit of eternal lives. Canada broke their gazes.

“Alfred is strong - he’s never lost a fight, and can use any weapon you put in his hands,” he said, full of genuine admiration for his brother’s talent. “He’s also really good with snares, and can track an animal for miles without losing the trail.”

“Yeah, but Matt’s a wiz with medicinal plants. Pretty good with a bow, too.” America would not let himself be outdone on the compliment-giving. “And he’s smart. ‘Probably got all kinds of plans cooking up in that head of his.”

Canada went red from the tips of his ears to below his shirt’s collar. Down the table, Haymitch grumbled under his breath about strength and bows.

“Alright, that sounds promising,” he said at last. “I’ll work on gathering sponsors, so no need to bother yourselves with that.” His eyes closed in thought. “Focus on new skills during training. Don’t draw attention, and don’t give away your strengths. Surprise is always an advantage.”

He rubbed his nape as he examined them, suddenly uncharacteristically bashful.

“If you work together,” he mumbled, America straining to hear, “you might just have a chance.”

Canada smiled kindly at him, but America was surprised by the change in attitude. Shrugging his shoulders, they discussed longer, until Haymitch dismissed them for bed. Any rest they could get should be taken.

They settled together, only one room between them this time. Only a few minutes passed before the door slid open with a soft knock.

“Alfred? Matthew?” Dawn whispered.

“Are you awake?” Ava pitched in, voice not as hushed as her sister’s. Canada sat up on his elbow, looking at them from over America’s side.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

“We can’t sleep,” Dawn spoke first.

“...can we stay with you?” Ava squeaked the end.

With a soft sigh, Canada’s arm lifted the comforter between him and his brother, the girls scrambling to the bed. America grunted when a knee dug into his stomach, the girls settling into the space made for them.

“Thank you,” Ava breathed from where she cuddled into Canada, repeated by Dawn a moment later. With soft chuckles, America and Canada laid their arms across them, drifting into uneasy sleep in each other’s comfort.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old allies meet, and an uneasy alliance is formed... I hope you like it!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: cursing and obnoxious sarcasm...

10am: the gathering time for tributes in the training area. Naturally, Studs dragged them out of bed and to breakfast at  _ seven _ , apparently thinking they’d need  _ three hours _ to prepare.  _ Three hours. _ Three hours of sleep he’d never get back. Last days of his life and he didn’t even get to sleep in.

Standing in the circle of tributes, Romano yawned wide, not bothering to cover his mouth. The head trainer babbled about schedules or something equally uninteresting, reminding that they weren’t allowed to fight other teams but they could move about the training area freely and  _ blah blah blah. _ God, Romano just couldn’t wait to find a quiet corner and take a nap.

Bored with the woman’s voice, he drearily looked around the training room. The entire basement was essentially a huge gym with wicked-looking weapons lined on racks and obstacle courses spread about. The colours were bland and there were no obvious places suitable for sleeping. Next, Romano’s attention turned to the gathered tributes. He wondered which of them would be the one to take his life, assuming the arena didn’t get to him first.

Immediately, his eyes found the North Americans. They were easily among the tallest of the tributes, though mere toothpicks compared to some of the massively built men and women. America’s gaze wandered over the competition while Canada stared avidly at the head trainer, nodding along at times. Romano rolled his eyes at their expense.

Though, he could laugh all he wanted. The North Americans stood tall and strong, at home among the blood-thirstiest tributes. By comparison, the Italies, with their slighter frames, stood head-to-head with the younger competitors. Romano fumed. How infuriating - they’d fought in wars long forgotten only to face, and potentially lose to, a handful of children.

The others were either sizing up the competition themselves or looking too piss-scared to do much of anything but stare and tremble. Romano watched the sharp grins on the faces of District 1’s tributes. Some of these people had trained their entire lives for this, and the Careers would be dangerous. The hags would also be trouble, if their endless glares were any hint.

His ears caught the end of the trainer’s speech, the words  _ lunch _ and  _ cafeteria _ drawing his attention. Concluding, she released them to their three days of training. Italy and Romano remained still where they stood, uncertain where to begin as the tributes dispersed.

Grumbling, Romano replayed the orders their mentor had given him in his mind. Protect Italy, stay by his side, and make a show of it. He didn’t need some human telling him to watch after his brother, he would have done so anyway. Talking a big game was his special talent, but in reality he was thin, weak, and hadn’t held a weapon since the rebellion. Unless one counted a sewing needle, which he very much did not.

_ Yep, we’re screwed. _

Italy stood tense next to him. Romano had yet to apologise for his actions on the train, their relationship awkward since. His brother tried acting like nothing had happened, but even then, the air between them was strained. It’s not as if Romano didn’t want to apologise, he simply hadn’t found the opportunity to. That’s what he was going with.

A tug on his sleeve brought him back from his thoughts.

“What should we do?” The anxiety in Italy’s voice reflected the knot in Romano’s stomach. Romano glanced around, scowl deepening.

The Careers had claimed the weapons stations, throwing spears and knives with horrific accuracy, detering the competition like the cocky bastards they were. Wimpier-looking outer-district tributes made their way through their first attempts at the stations. Others, like the hags, busied themselves with  _ absolutely useless _ skills like knot tying and plant identification.

Finishing his sweep of the gymnasium, his eyes landed on America, Canada, and their young shadows, crouched in a circle at the snare-making station. Romano sneered in their direction, not trusting them with much more than a pet rock. Not even a pretty rock. More like a side-of-the-road, discarded-gravel rock.

If Italy noticed the glare, he ignored it, pulling Romano forward by the sleeve of his jacket. “Let’s go to the snare station,  _ fratellino! _ ” Romano sputtered and cursed the whole way, not wanting to go anywhere  _ near _ those dangerous bastards. He was relieved when Italy did not immediately approach the others, instead asking the instructor for help setting a trap. With a grumble, Romano crouched next to his brother, dreadfully uncomfortable with his back to the enemy. 

Both groups worked in silence, finishing their lessons and standing at the same time, a gap between them as they walked to the next activity. Before making it to knot tying, Italy lept to cut 12’s tributes off, arms open. The North Americans shared blank looks with him, the young girls worming their way behind their older counterparts’ backs. Romano’s hackles raised, acutely aware of his role as protector. Before he could intervene, Italy extended his hand to Canada, a warm smile on his lips.

“My name is Feliciano Vargas,” he said, then motioned to Romano. “And this is my brother, Lovino!” Romano almost growled at Canada, but halted when Italy’s smile was returned. A slender, pale hand reached to accept Italy’s, shaking it firmly.

An alliance. Fucking  _ fantastic. _ Alliances were meant to be broken.

“Matthew Williams,” Canada introduced himself. “And this is Alfred.” America took Italy’s hand, grinning as he shook it. Feeling the pressure of his brother’s eyes, Romano reluctantly shook each of their hands, squeezing harder than necessary. Empowered, the smaller of the two girls revealed herself from behind Canada, extending her hand.

“My name is Ava!” She shook avidly, then motioned her sister forward. Hesitantly, the other revealed herself, murmuring her name and offering her hand.

Romano’s stomach sank further. These bastards were going to betray them, and they were playing right into it. The way Italy laughed and shared stories of their lives, he seemed perfectly at ease. With tight smiles on all faces but his own, they moved through the stations, starting fires, building shelters, and completing hunting simulations. As Romano feared, the North Americans burned through the challenges with ease, each victory only sealing his and Italy’s fates. Even if they stuck it out to the end, the second it was down to the four of them, there would be no stopping these monsters. They’d be gutted like just another rabbit.

At lunch, they sat together in the cafeteria. The Careers were a few tables down, obnoxiously raucous and shooting challenging comments at the other tributes as they ate. Stray groups were scattered throughout the cafeteria, the others mostly keeping to themselves and their siblings.

Italy and America chatted with animation, as if they were old friends, the girls joining in when they had something to share. Overall, the company was not unbearable - definitely better than the assholes on the eighth floor - but Romano remained uneasy in their presence. Comfort was a means to an end. He shot a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder.

Canada was nowhere to be seen. From experience, Romano knew how dangerous losing sight of him could be. Moulding from the shadows, he could appear from nothing. One moment you were alone, the next you had a blade in your ribs. As if reading his thoughts, Italy searched the seats around them.

“Hey, where did  _ Matteo _ go?” he asked, only friendly concern in his voice. 

America shrugged noncommittally. “Just checking up on the competition, is all.” A devious grin momentarily split his lips. It disappeared just as quickly, as if the words had not been nearly as ominous as they were. Italy did not seem to mind, echoing the shrug and returning to his story.

For Romano, the tension in his gut only tightened. Every moment brought them further into the North Americans’ trap, and as he brought his fork to his lips he felt cold, violet eyes on his back, calculating the moment they’d bring his long life to a sudden end.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for some violence. Enjoy!
> 
> From the first draft 4 years ago to now, the private sessions have been the biggest thorn in my side. I couldn't come up with a better idea, so I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote until it was as bearable as it could be. I hope the emotion of it comes across without making you cringe too badly lol!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: violence and slight paranoia.

“No, don’t hold it so tight. Loosen your grip.” Dawn’s fingers shook around the handle of the knife in her hands, and America felt his frustration getting the better of him. “Look, it’s not gonna hurt you! Relax a little!”

Dawn tried again, grip awkward around the weighted blade. The dummy before them was still perfectly intact, untouched and ready to be struck. With an irritated sigh, America lifted his own weapon towards its chest.

“Watch, hold it like this. Don’t tuck your thumb under your fingers. That way, when you lunge,” he leapt forward, sinking the blade to the hilt in the dummy’s flesh, “you won’t hurt your hand. Okay? You try.”

Pale faced, Dawn stepped into striking distance, shakily raising her blade. With a heavy swallow, she drove the knife forward, the blade barely breaking skin before she pulled back, knife in tow. The hole left in the dummy’s abdomen spewed fake blood onto the floor and her shoes, and with a cry of surprise, Dawn dropped her knife with a clatter.

Canada and Ava approached them then, Ava’s complexion as pasty white as her sister’s as they abandoned their own dummy.

“This isn’t working,” America grumbled, stooping to swipe up the discarded knife. Heaving a sigh, Canada turned to the girls, who shuffled their feet uncomfortably to avoid the amassing pool of mock blood.

“How about we take a break?” he asked them. They nodded gratefully, and he turned back to America. “I’ll go to the edible plants station with them, if you wanted to keep doing this.”

“They’re going to have to learn to fight eventually,” America hissed to his brother. A troubled look settled on Canada’s face.

“We can’t force them.” He turned to collect the girls, glancing back at America over his shoulder as he led them away. “We’ll join you later, okay?”

As they left, America emptied his lungs in a growl. Without considering the blade in his hand, he stabbed it forcefully into the dummy’s ribs, leaving it standing like a porcupine quill with the other. The spewing of blood was slightly invigorating, a good outlet for his frustration. Leaving the dummy to bleed out, he figured he might as well make use of the alone time to brush up on his use of the provided weapons, even if he had to tone down his strength for the sake of appearances.

The Training Centre housed a diverse lineup of tools with which to kill, and over the next hour, America didn’t limit himself from any of them. He paused mid-swing in his purposefully-weak throw of a spear, the prickle of eyes on his back bringing him to a halt.

The Careers were watching. He could feel it, hear their snickers as they judged his lacking form. Haymitch’s warning to  _ not draw attention _ flashed in his mind, but he pushed it aside. He could run that dummy through from across the gym, wipe the relentless smirks right from their faces. Perhaps not the best decision, but he was frustrated and pent up and could use a little satisfaction in his life.

Lowering his weight, America lifted the spear again. Taking only a second to aim, his arm pulled back, chest open and stance wide for balance. Smoothly, he swung, arm and weapon slicing an arc through the air. The spear cleared clean through the dummy a split second later, splattering blood and standing in the wall behind its target. America grinned. No Career threw with such power.

Turning to see their reactions, he spun in confusion. 

No one. There was no one watching. He had been so sure-

A commotion across the training area drew his attention. Near the survival stations, a group of tributes had gathered, the aggressive pack of Careers surrounded loosely by observers. America was inclined not to get involved, but his curiosity got the better of him, pulling him across the room in a quick walk.

“What’s even the point,  _ Buttercup? _ ” A large man from District 1 jeered when America entered earshot. He hovered above his target, and America’s heart skipped when he saw Canada, Dawn, and Ava on the receiving end.

Canada’s face flushed red. He stood protectively between the Careers and the girls behind him, back straight to combat the larger man’s presence. Trainers stood at the ready nearby, unable to intervene unless blows exchanged, but ready to leap at the first sign of violence. America quickened his pace.

“Why waste the effort, you know they’re gonna die anyway!” The man’s possy laughed from behind him. Balling his fists, Canada’s brows pressed together, lips drawn in a snarl.

“They have just as much of a chance as you,” he growled, low and dangerous. The female volunteer from 2, the one named Glitz, pushed her way forward to stand in Canada’s face.

“And who’s gonna save ‘em? They obviously can’t fight for themselves!” She jabbed her finger harshly into his chest, forcing him to take a half-step backwards. “You? You’re nothing but a teary-eyed brat!"

When the Careers hooted their support, she pressed on.

“That brother of yours probably only puts up with you ‘cuz you’re blood.” Glitz’ sneer split into a devilish grin, exposing her teeth. “You’ll see, the second you’re in the arena, he’ll leave you for the wolves!”

From the distance America still had to run, he saw Canada’s confidence waver. Glitz stepped further towards him, perched on her toes to loom near his face. Instinctively, Canada’s hands rose, resting against her upper arms to halt her advance. Overly dramatic, Glitz stumbled backwards as if she’d been shoved, he allies netting her fall. Canada remained stunned in place, hands frozen in the air as the huge man from before stepped aggressively forward, fist poised.

America watched helplessly, still out of reach, as Canada moved too late to block the incoming blow. The knuckles connected with his cheekbone with a sickening  _ crack, _ throwing his neck to the side and dropping him to the floor like a sack of flour. Ava and Dawn leapt mid-scream to avoid being crushed beneath him, and Canada hit hard, head rebounding and glasses clattering free nearby.

The room exploded into motion. Trainers jumped in, tearing tributes away from each other and preventing further aggression. Fueled by rage, America finally reached the crowd, fists raised and ready for blows. Arms reached around him, yanking at his clothes and limbs as trainers appeared to detain him.

Abandoning his sight on the Careers, he turned to Canada, still on the floor nearby. The grips on his clothes loosened enough for him to run to his brother, dropping to his knees at his side. Curled in on himself, Canada cupped his injured cheek. A medical assistant joined them, prying his arms aside to examine the wound. Through clenched teeth, Canada groaned when the medic prodded his cheekbone, eyes screwed shut in pain.

Behind him, America was painfully aware of the Careers, yelling promises of death over the shoulders of the trainers. America’s eyes narrowed dangerously at his brother’s side, echoing them in his mind.

For the first time, he found himself looking forward to the arena.

\----

In the days following the scuffle, trainers kept the tributes carefully separate. Despite Canada’s insistence that he had not instigated the aggression, he had been placed under constant surveillance during training. A dark bruise formed across his left cheekbone and the bridge of his nose, but luckily, nothing was broken. The whole incident proved to be an unfortunate turn of events; the attention of the other tributes were now fully on them. 

Altering their approach, America and Canada went all-out during training, tearing through dummies and sparring each other to exhaustion. Challenging looks were met with hardened eyes and wide stances, and insults were not to be tolerated. Dawn and Ava stuck to their sides like ducklings, stunned into silence. They watched with hunched shoulders as America and Canada trained, violent and ruthless, drawing on centuries of practice and viciousness that no number of hugs and kind words could soften.

At the end of the final day of training, they sat together in the cafeteria, awaiting their turns for their private sessions. One pair at a time had been called into the training area, starting with the females of the first district and ending with 12’s males.

Dawn and Ava left with tense faces and trembling steps when they were summoned. They were prepared to present their knowledge of edible plants and fire starting. At the very least, Canada claimed, they’d be able to care for themselves in the arena.

After a few tense minutes of waiting, a cracking voice over the intercom called America and Canada for their turn. Following each other into the training room, they took the lingering scent of smoke as a good sign for their younger counterparts. In a wordless march, they aimed for the sword-sparring station: a slightly raised circular platform near the centre of the room.

Truthfully, they had been uncertain on what to perform. The options were limitless, but with Haymitch’s guidance, they settled on swordplay. Swords were dramatic, requiring both brute force and precision, and always made for tense battles on television. 

They each pulled a weapon off the rack, the swords long, elegant, more ceremonial than practical, and stood facing the gamemakers in the centre of the circle. Their judges sat in a raised room overlooking the training area, thick glass separating them from the tributes below. America’s eyes traveled over each of them, noting their attention to wine and food rather than the performances. His eyes narrowed in displeasure, mouth opening to draw their focus. Before sound left his lips, he halted.

A prickle, small and cold, drew his eyes to the back corner of the gamemakers’ perch. Off to the side, isolated and alone, crisp white suit contrasting the shadows in which he stood, was a young man. Pale white hair, a sharp chin, cold grey eyes - he watched them with the rapt attention of a snake on its prey.

“We’ve got an audience,” America whispered to his brother, lips barely moving as his gaze met Panem’s. Canada hummed in agreement, standing at-attention. Beneath his skin, America felt his blood pulse, churning and calling him to his brother and neighbour, an echo of the bond their countries once shared.

With a tight bow, they took their positions in the ring, swords extended and crossed, free arms held rigid behind their backs just as their sovereigns had taught them. The sparring began sharply, circling them around the platform, the exchange of blows part battle, part dance. Elegant and flowing, strikes driven by heart, their blades met with showers of sparks and the power of the old world, touches of needy alliance.

“Are you watching, Panem?” America hissed, too low for anyone but his brother to hear. Retreating to their own corners, light as wind on their feet, their blows became sharper, the colliding of two immovable forces of nature. They drew the strength of their land up their legs, into each other, clashing until their blades met throats - completely at the other’s mercy, but useless without. “ _ This _ is what it means to be a nation.”

America could hear the gunfire around them loud as the day he’d lived it, feel the pounding of his heart and the crumbling of his world all over again. Canada pulled away from him, the fingers of their free hands finding each other and linking, keeping them bound even as they wore each other down with their weapons.

When at last their legs bowed and surrendered beneath their bodies, they crumpled to their knees, foreheads pressed together, sitting, defeated and waiting, swords cast aside but not forgotten. America felt his brother’s breath hot on his face, saw the bags under his eyes and the bruise from where he’d been struck down. There was something calling to him, commanding him to rise. He knew Canada felt it too, and when America stood, he dragged his brother up with him.

They kept their hands on each other’s forearms, grips like steel, panting and exhausted. But the world was waiting for them, holding its breath, ready. There was moisture gathering along the edges of Canada’s eyes, and America pulled his brother in for a hug. They were nations, but never monsters. 

Cold eyes watched with practiced indifference. When they finally parted, the war over and forgiveness inevitable, they did not turn to Panem, did not offer him mercy. Whatever came next, as always, America and Canada would face it together. That was the difference between them and him.

As America pulled his brother from the room by his hand, their point made, and he could only hope Panem understood. He’d abandoned his chance for ‘together’ years ago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the interviews, followed by the final prep for the games. One more week until the arena, yay!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I've been adding and removing the interviews each time I edit this story, but I think it's an important enough part of the games' process to keep it in.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: none.

“...and then it started, just like we practiced!” With pride, Dawn gave the full rundown of their successful private sessions over dinner, their tablemates giving encouraging nods and wide smiles. “One of the gamemakers clapped for us and everything!”

“He was really young, but had _white_ hair!” Ava added. America’s fork bit sharply through a square of steak on his plate, perturbed by the thought of Panem patronisingly _praising_ these children he had sentenced to death. It was just like him, that _prick_. 

The sound stole the table’s attention onto him, Haymitch calculating America’s clipped, harsh chewing and the spiteful set of his jaw with narrowed his eyes.

“And, you two, how did it go?” Haymitch’s posture shifted almost nervously when neither brother responded, Canada continuing to eat without even raising his eyes. The scrutiny fell on America next, and he shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. Though they’d performed their swordsmanship as planned, they’d also made it clear to Panem just what they thought of him. If he hadn’t wanted them dead before, he surely would now.

Upon not receiving an answer, Haymitch simply grunted, turning back to his own meal. 

“Fine, we’ll see the scores later, anyway.” He shoved a dinner roll into his mouth, effectively ending the conversation there.

As promised, with the conclusion of dinner the tributes found themselves relocated to the sitting room, the team spread across the sofas and armchairs as the television flickering to life as the score announcements began.

In the usual pattern, photos of the tributes appeared one after another on the screen, their scores flashing below. The scores ranked the teams of twin tributes on a scale between a disastrously awful one and unattainably high twelve based on their training performances. Not an assurance of victory - the scores simply highlighted a tribute’s potential for the ease of sponsors, but in practice, scoring high just left tributes with massive targets on their backs. Underscoring was common.

Beginning with the first districts, America tried to keep his reactions muted, but couldn’t help his scowl when the man who injured Canada’s face appeared with his twin, scoring an unsurprising ten. They were replaced by Glitz and her teary-eyed sister, who still managed to score an impressive nine between them. The other Careers proved similar, scoring in the eight-to-ten range, with scores diminishing in the outer districts. All as expected.

The women from District 8 walked away with a humbling seven, only to be blown out of the water by Italy and Romano’s ten. How they’d managed that, America couldn’t even begin to guess. Training with them went about how he’d expected - and by that he meant Italy caught fire twice and Romano would have poisoned himself on random leaves ten times over had Canada not been overseeing.

Ava and Dawn fidgeted nervously as the district numbers rose, and by the sporadic rapping of Canada’s fingers on the arm of his seat, America could only guess that he was anxious as well. 

Finally, District 12’s emblem appeared on the screen, accompanied by Ava and Dawn’s solemn faces. Seconds later, a larger silver four took its place beneath them. Effie and her posse of prep teams leapt from their seats with cheers, four being a safe, mid-range number that didn’t draw attention nor count them out. Nonetheless, Dawn slumped into her seat, looking disappointed.

The celebration lasted only a moment, the girls’ faces replaced by Canada and America’s. Following the signature pause, their scores appeared, a shiny, overpowering eleven. America felt his eyes widen in genuine surprise - he shot a glance at Canada, who sat stock-still, face stony and eyes locked on their score even long after it had faded.

Hands clapped down on America’s back and shoulders, cheers of congratulations all around them. He accepted with a puffed ego, and Canada with quiet, modest thanks. When the celebration finally faded, the adults dismissed themselves for the evening, Effie practically skipping out of the room as she led Ava and a still-solemn Dawn to prepare for bed. 

Now alone with his brother, America felt the good mood dissipate. Canada had that set to his brow that screamed deep contemplation, which meant America needed to get involved before his brother got too buried down his mental rabbit holes. Scooting closer across the couch, he cleared his throat.

“So… What d'ya think of the scores?” he asked, aiming for casual but not quite hitting the mark. Canada’s posture straightened, as if he’d been yanked back to the present.

“Political,” he claimed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world as he plucked his glasses from his face and cleaned them on his shirt.

“What?” America asked, uncertain of where Canada was going with this.

“The scores. They’re entirely political.” Canada clarified, replacing his glasses on his nose while being careful of the bruise there. “We’ve got experience with swords, sure, but there wasn’t anything spectacular about the performance. Plus, Lovino and Feliciano - no offence meant to them - but I sure wasn’t seeing ten-ranked material during training.” He paused, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back into the couch.

“So unless those two have some hidden talents, I honestly don’t think it would have mattered what any of us had chosen to do. It’s no secret that the lives of high-scoring tributes are hell in the arena. Even more so than usual.” Canada shook his head, turning to lock eyes with America. “This is just another game to Panem. And too bad for us, but we’re his favourite toys.”

Canada’s words stuck with America as they prepared for bed, brushing their teeth and changing in near silence. Canada was perched on the edge of the mattress, ready to flick off the lamp, when the door cracked open just enough to make out the hunched shape of a child in the hall. 

“Matthew? Alfred?” Dawn’s voice asked, barely louder than a whisper. Canada’s hand fell away from the chain of the lamp, but he did not rise to let her in.

“Yes, Dawn?” Canada replied. A beat of silence followed, and America almost got up to check on her when she finally spoke.

“You’re going to win, right?” Her voice cracked, thin and pleading. “...Promise?”

America froze, guilt tasting sour in his throat. His mouth opened to protest her unspoken thoughts, to tell her not to count herself out, to say _something,_ when Canada’s quiet voice stopped him.

“We’re going to try our best,” he said somberly. America’s gaze snapped to his brother in surprise, and found Canada staring blankly towards the door, Dawn’s watery eyes glinting back from the shadows of the hallway. “And I expect nothing less from you.”

For a moment, all remained deathly silent. Finally, Dawn gave a shallow nod, the door clicking shut with sickening finally. Canada sighed, drawn and deep, and America did not get a chance to say anything before the lamp flicked off and plunged them into darkness.

Behind his eyelids as he lay to sleep, all America could see was that final ghost of his brother, hunched, eyes dull, the bags under them accented by the bruising on his cheekbones, and looking so, so frail. 

\----

The next morning, America tugged at the too-tight collar of his dress shirt, fighting the urge to loosen his tie and wishing to escape the searing heat of the backstage area. Despite everything they’d been through up until that point, he found himself nervous. Beyond the curtains, where Ava and Dawn were currently doing their interviews, the people of the Capitol watched with as rapt attention as ever. Maybe more - this was the tributes’ last chance to gain the audience’s favour, and the pressure was as suffocating as the form-fitting shirt around America’s throat.

Cinna had chosen pitch black suits for their interviews, America’s adorned with a fiery red trim and his brother’s a calming blue. Sweat mixed with the makeup dusted on America’s face, his skin clammy and thick, teeth worrying at his lips. How Canada managed to keep his makeup perfect was a mystery to America, not a speck out of place, his complexion flawlessly pale with only the bruise under his eye staining like blood in snow.

Their turn was next. Romano and Italy had long come and gone, their scripted roles of ‘protector’ and ‘protected’ completely transparent to America, but the audience had eaten it up. On the huge screen, America was somewhat aware of Dawn and Ava’s interview. They sat together on a couch set on the stage, hand-in-hand with carefree, swinging feet, exactly as Haymitch directed. If the look of them in their pale dresses, royal blue bows clipped in shiny amber hair and lips painted a striking red, didn’t make America sick with guilt, he’d think them adorable. Clearly, the audience had no such reservations, cheering and humming along with whatever the children said.

Admittedly, America hadn’t heard much of the girls’ interview, or any of the twenty-two preceding it. His thoughts flew this way and that, thinking over Haymitch’s advice, planning responses to potential questions, and working himself up into a stressful mess. The backstage timer counted down the seconds in angry red numbers until it would be his turn, and he closed his eyes to take steadying breaths, forcing his nerves to calm. Once in control of himself, he turned back to the screen, hoping to catch the last few seconds of the interview. The host, an eccentric man named Caesar Flickerman, sat forward in his chair, coming close enough to the girls that America felt a protective fire in his chest.

“So, Dawn, Ava… we’ve heard a bit about your past, but now I have some questions about your future.” Shifting his weight, Caesar clasped his hands between his knees. “This year, you’re the youngest tributes participating in the games. Any plans for once you get into the arena?”

The girls shared a quick glance, as if telepathically conversing between themselves.

“Well…” somewhat sheepishly, Dawn began. “We were planning on staying with Matthew and Alfred. They’ll protect us-”

“-and we’ll protect them!” Ava finished happily, earning a drawn _‘awwww’_ from the audience.

America’s eyes found his feet, suddenly unable to stomach watching the screen. If Caesar asked the girls any other questions, he missed them, the buzzer signaling the interview’s end and dragging him from his thoughts.

Canada’s hand found America’s, giving it a squeeze, a silent reminder of what was at stake _._ In the past, America had never found public speaking particularly intimidating, but now, he had to force a smile onto his lips, uncurling his spine to stand tall and proud. Caesar called their names, and America led his brother onto the stage, their joined hands raised in a show of union. For a terrifying moment, America was taken aback by the sheer size of the audience, Capitol citizens packed like a colourful sea in the square, the crowd spilling into side streets and lining balconies above. 

Cheers erupted for them as they crossed to centre stage, Caesar leaping from his seat to shake each of their hands in turn.

“Wow-ee! Listen to those cheers! Quite the popular ones, aren’t you?” The audience only screamed louder, and a bouquet of flowers landed on the stage at Canada’s feet. He stooped to delicately pick it up, giving the petals a deep sniff as Caesar directed them to sit.

Remembering the plan, America reclined back into the creamy white sofa, crossing his legs ankle-on-knee and letting the smile on his face turn to a satisfied smirk. He threw his arm over the back of the couch behind Canada, who sat tall and proper next to him, knees locked elegantly over each other with the bouquet in his lap. His expression was expertly schooled, the faint upturn to his lips perfectly polite.

Wasting no time in getting started, Caesar silenced the audience and settled into his chair. “Alfred, Matthew, welcome to the Capitol!” Turning to the tributes, his forest-green suit, hair, lipstick, _everything_ flashed and gleamed in the blinding lights. “How are you finding it?”

“Awesome!”

“Wonderful.”

The audience cheered, and Caesar laughed.

“A bit different from District 12, I hear!” At their smirked and nodded confirmation, he continued. “Speaking of which, this is the second year in a row that 12 has swept Panem off its feet. Those are quite the shoes to fill!”

America chuckled, imagining Panem seething at the thought. “Yes, well, we’re going to be a bit different from last year’s tributes,” he stated, drawing Caesar towards him in interest.

“How so?”

Leaning forward as well, like sharing an important secret, America smiled wider. “We’re going all the way. We’re gonna win.”

Cheers exploded from the crowd, filling the square with noise. With a chuckle, Caesar silenced them.

“Your training score certainly seems to back that! E-le-ven! You must tell us, how did you do it?”

This time, Canada took over. “It’s all about knowing your audience. You have to show people what they need to see.”

With an intrigued sound, Caesar shuffled to the edge of his seat. “Oh, how you tease! Please, indulge us - we’re dying to know what went on behind those doors!”

“Surely you know that a magician never reveals his tricks.” Canada flashed the audience a practiced smile despite the nerves America knew he was feeling. Attention had never made his brother comfortable, but he managed to be both charmingly innocent and devious at once, earning another round of cheers.

“True enough!” Caesar surrendered with dramatic defeat, before re-sharpening his focus on Canada’s eye. “And, Matthew, I think you’ve got a story we _need_ to hear! That’s quite the bruise you’re sporting!”

Canada’s hand rose to his cheekbone, fingers dusting the angry, purple blotch. “Yes, there was a bit of a… _disagreement,_ during training.” Fascinated, Caesar pried for details, but was politely brushed off.

“Did you hit them back?” he finally settled for asking. Canada gave an airy laugh.

“Mister Flickerman, patience is often rewarded, and soon the conditions for revenge will be rather favourable.” A surprised look briefly crossed Caesar’s expression, taken aback by the coldness in the mannerly tribute. America nearly smirked at his expense - his brother being vastly underestimated would never get old.

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the arena, then!” Collecting himself in record time, Caesar turned his focus back to both of them. “Speaking of which, any strategies forming in those heads of yours?”

“Win,” America answered immediately, clipping the end of Caesar’s sentence. More cheers - it was almost too easy. When at last the audience calmed, Caesar’s tone shifted, brushing off the games to focus on something new.

“So, how does your family feel about your newfound fame?” It was asked lightly, like it was supposed to be a softball question, but America felt Canada stiffen next to him. His own heart skipped in his chest - he hadn’t expected to be asked about family. He didn’t want to think about it.

“...we don’t have any family,” America answered carefully, wishing he could be talking about anything else. The memories of them were too precious, something he didn’t want to share with people who wanted him dead. 

“No family? What about friends? Surely there’s someone you love, missing you back home.”

“N-no. It’s just us.”

Caesar looked puzzled, now, leaning forward in his chair like a bloodhound chasing a scent. “Forgive me for sounding rude, but if there’s no one waiting for you back home, then what’s driving your dedication to win?”

America exchanged a drawn look with Canada, his brother’s brow pinched and eyes misty. The way his jaw trembled, the soft purple of his irises, the shine of the stage lights on his hair - America knew exactly what he was fighting for.

“We’re going to win for each other, I guess,” he said, turning away from his brother and swallowing around the cotton in his mouth. “You asked if there’s someone I love, and of course there is. He’s right here with me.”

“I see.” Caesar contemplated the response, and a moment later, his eyes lit up. “That would explain how close you seem. You know, there have been some rumours going around about how close-”

“-we’re all we have!” Canada suddenly found his voice, cutting off Caesar’s thoughts. The microphone pinned to his lapel was the only way he was heard from where he nervously tore petals from the flowers in his lap. “Our family was… was k-killed, a long time ago.”

 _That_ drew Caesar’s attention. The audience was so silent a pin could drop like a bomb. “Killed? How so?”

America’s heart sank. This was not something he wanted these people to know, and he felt his control over the conversation slipping through his fingers by the second. He could hear Canada struggle to keep his breathing steady, losing his composure to the memories and countless eyes on them, and with a frustrated growl, America met Caesar’s gaze. If they wanted the truth, he’d give it.

“Murdered,” America spat, cold and angry. The audience gasped, the quiet returning a moment later. Leaving a pause, America turned directly to the nearest camera, speaking to no one but the murderer himself. “By someone we all thought we could trust.”

A buzzer rang out, then, signaling the end of their interview. America stood stiffly, dragging his brother upward with a yank on his wrist. The ruined bouquet fell out of Canada’s lap, joining the shredded petals on the floor at their feet. Giving a clipped bow to the audience, America turned towards the curtains, pulling Canada’s arm to ensure he was being followed.

After seventy-five years, the memories were still sharp and painful, and they did not need petty _humans_ using their pain for amusement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are the pre-game perspectives of the Italies & North Americans, so I'll post them together next time. Thanks for reading and see you on Saturday!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last check-in with the Italies pre-games. This is a short chapter, so you get two for the price of one this time!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: cursing.

That night, long after the sun had set, condensation dripped along the surface of the cool glass, a single bedroom pane separating him from the dizzying, eight-story drop below. Hugging his arms tighter around his legs, Romano shifted his eyes from the darkening sky, lowering to watch the flickering lights and flowing movements of the parties below. 

_ Parties, _ he scoffed to himself.  _ Parties for our deaths. I hope the wine is fucking fantastic. _

Anger bubbled in him again, his mind wandering over the day’s events. The interviews. Italy made instant friends with the audience, as usual, playing happy and carefree even as the world ended around him. Romano couldn’t have been anything but the cynical jerk he was even if he’d wanted to. 

He’d played along with Studs’ little plan - be angry, gruff, protect your brother at all costs. It was not lost on him that it had all been an act. He’d been practically reading from a script, and Italy had received no real promises from him. Romano wasn’t sure he could stomach breaking a promise to his brother. 

He’d protect Italy with his life, of course. He had no doubt it would be permanent this time - without territory and population, they were as good as mortal. Unwittingly, his brain flitted to the North Americans.  _ Their _ land was still intact, and by extension, their people.

His fingers curled deeper into his arms.  _ Damn _ them! If it weren’t for those bastards, he and Italy might have actually stood a chance in the games! No, it goes further back. Panem had been  _ their _ responsibility! All of it was their fault. Whatever they’d done, they’d poked the hornet’s nest with a stick. Romano could feel it. The Nation Peoples’ lives would be  _ hell _ in the arena, and he and Italy were just along for the ride.

And those hags! With their  _ oh-so-heartbreaking _ life’s story. They wouldn’t know suffering if it slapped them in the face. They wanted to see  _ hardships? _ How about an eternity of fighting? Watching mortals drop like flies around them? Spending the last seventy-five years with everyone you’ve ever known dead? How’s  _ that _ for heartbreak?

Romano’s body shook from rage, teeth clamped and gritting forcefully. He. Was. Pissed. 

Pissed at the world, at Panem, at those directly responsible and those not. At  _ everyone. _ Including himself. He was nervous and sick and terrified, emotions he knew all too well and had only ever covered with vehemence and blame. He was terrified of death, terrified of loss, terrified at what the next day would bring - terrified because  _ he still hadn’t apologised to Italy and they were going to die, die, die. _

As if summoned by the thought, the door to his room slid open. Forcing a deep exhale, Romano watched Italy cross hesitantly towards him by his reflection in the window. Reigning in his emotions, Romano tried to collect himself as discreetly as possible. Italy had enough to worry about without his anger. Into the other corner of the windowsill, Italy sat heavily, leaning against the glass and facing his brother.

He looked like he might cry. Romano almost wished he would - it would make the tears threatening to spill over his own eyes seem like less of a big deal. Muffled music and cheers reached them through the glass from the streets below, condensation running streaks down the window and wetting their clothes.

“What are we going to do,  _ fratellino? _ ” Italy finally asked, his voice whispered and cracked. Taking a deep breath, Romano gathered any thoughts he could.

“We stick to the plan,” he answered, hating his own words but hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “Follow the hamburger and maple bastards.”

“A-and what if you’re right?” Italy really was crying now, knees pulled to his chest and bottled emotions spilling over. “What if they b-betray us?”

“Too late to turn back now,” Romano grumbled, as much to himself as to his brother. Italy just sobbed, eyes scrunching and sending tears down well-traced paths on his cheeks. Regret settled in the pit of Romano’s stomach. He’d been an awful brother. Italy was suffering, just as scared and nervous as him, and Romano had pushed him away. He’d already failed the promises he had yet to even truly make. 

Hell, the only reason he’d registered them as twins was his own laziness. Easier to remember. Easier to explain. Ease - what a joke. In the end, Romano was the older, and it was his job to take care of this little brother. He had always been the older, and he always would be. 

Always would…

That had a nice ring to it. Always, forever, past tomorrow night and the next day and the day after  _ that, _ past the fucking  _ games, _ because maybe, just maybe, if Romano played his cards right, they could  _ win. _ The North Americans weren’t the only ones who could play dirty.

Spain’s voice was back, nagging that this was his chance to make things right with his brother. Shuffling to his knees, Romano practically lunged towards Italy, pulling him into a hug. Italy’s breath hitched, but almost immediately, he clung to the shirt at his brother’s back. Romano didn’t care that Italy’s nails were digging into his skin, that his tears were wetting a circle into his shirt, or that his hair smelled like the awful synthetic fruit shampoos they’d been given. 

Beyond that, he didn’t give a rat’s ass who his opponents were. The Careers? The hags? Those damn North Americans, with their freakish talents and historical victories? To  _ hell _ with them. All that mattered was Italy, and getting them both out alive. 

“Italy,” he whispered, not giving two shits at who might be listening to hear his brother’s name. Italy’s sobs cut off sharply, attention gripped, and Romano inhaled deeply. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, so he started with the most difficult words he knew, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry for all the horrible things I said. I’m sorry I’m such an idiot and that I haven’t been there for you. I’m so, so sorry, Italy.” He swallowed thickly, those threatening tears from earlier finally falling. “You were right. We can win this thing, and we’re  _ going to. _ We’ll win, and we’ll go home, back to that fucking factory where we’ll sew a thousand shirts for the Capitol every day, and I’ll bitch and complain but I won’t really mean it because you’ll laugh and I’ll smile and be with  _ you, _ and we’ll both be alive.” He paused a moment to catch his breath, inhaling through the tightness in his chest.

“I’m going to protect you. No dumb scripts this time, no notecards.” His mind whirled, but Italy’s arms tightening around him kept him grounded. “I’m going to protect you. I swear it. I  _ swear. _ I swear like nothing I’ve ever fucking sworn before.”

Beyond the trembling in his body, Italy remained perfectly still, not even breath ruffling the fabric of Romano’s shirt. Italy was so quiet, Romano’s heart felt like it might explode. When Italy pulled away, he could only sob. Maybe Italy didn’t believe him - he’d given him no reason to. Maybe he didn’t even lo-

“Romano.” Italy’s voice snipped his thoughts, and his eyes rose to meet his brother’s. Italy’s hands appeared on Romano’s shoulders, the grip tightening, and Italy gave a small, broken smile, cheeks glistening from the city lights below. “Thank you.”

His heart fluttered with relief. Brow scrunching, Romano couldn’t help the fresh wave of tears that bubbled from his eyes, launching forward into his brother for another hug. The parties in the streets below continued distantly, ignorant to them, perched in their room on the eighth floor. They sat together and cried until their tears ran dry, sobs quieting to sniffles, fresh out of prayers to gods long forgotten.

When Italy’s shoulders began shaking again, Romano lifted his head in surprise, but was met only by a  _ smile _ . 

“What?” Romano growled, throat hoarse. Wiping away the tears that had gathered on the tip of his nose with his sleeve, Italy only giggled harder.

“Lovi, you  _ do _ swear. A lot!” Italy moved his arm away from his nose, exposing his blotched face and kind smile and whispered, barely above the silence, “I think I like this kind of swearing better, though.” Romano felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment, and quickly turned his head to hide the oncoming blush.

“Whatever. Enjoy it, I won’t be repeating myself.” His eyes rose sheepishly from where they had been planted on the carpet. “...I meant it, though.”

“I know.” Italy’s mouth stretched into a genuine, trusting smile. “And I’ll do my best for you, too.”

Shifting closer to one another, they spent their final night of safety against the window, watching the dancing light of the city below.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter before the games!
> 
> Remember back in chapter 2, when I joked about 'surprise' characters despite them being in the tags/description? Well, here's a treat, just for sticking with me for so long ;)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: none.

America yawned ungracefully, mouth wide and barely covered by an exhausted hand. He’d hardly slept at all the night before, and when he did, nightmares of the arena kept it fitful. His whole body felt heavy, sluggish, thoughts scrambled and thick. Canada sat on the other side of the table from him, picking half-heartedly at his breakfast and looking rough himself, pale and exhausted.

The girls sat further down, eerily quiet and not yet recovered from their own tearful, difficult night they’d spent crying into Canada’s chest. Sorrow hung like a cloud over the entire group - gathered for their last meal with the tributes were Effie, Haymitch, and the stylists. Waiting for disaster was always the worst part, and though America would rather not end up in the arena, he was also strangely ready to just get it over with.

When a white-clad boy entered the room, bowing gracefully to Haymitch, the group stood for farewells. While Cinna and the other stylists would be accompanying them until their final moments prior to the games, they would be parting with Effie and Haymitch immediately.

Effie crossed to them, heels clicking heavily in the silence. Stopping before the tributes, genuine tears pricked her eyes as she looked them over one by one. With a deep intake of breath, she opened her arms, gathering them all in for a final hug. She held it for a few moments, then broke the embrace without a word, lips drawn and face tight. A handkerchief appeared in her hand, delicately dabbing away tears around heavy eyeliner as she turned and disappeared out the door, not once looking back at those she had been tasked with caring for.

In the heavy silence following her departure, Haymitch approached awkwardly, patting each girl on the head before shaking Canada and America’s hands in turn. Though Haymitch appeared less on the verge of tears, his jaw was clenched tight, brows furrowed. As America took his hand, he noticed it tremble, though perhaps it was his own.

“Good luck,” Haymitch swallowed thickly. His eyes skimmed each tribute, pausing as he exchanged a look with America. With a sharp nod, Haymitch turned on his heels, following after Effie and leaving them as prepared for what came ahead as he could. 

Sobbing broke the quiet, Ava burying her face into Dawn’s shoulder, who reciprocated with a hug. Their stylists appeared at their sides, rubbing circles into their backs. From where he watched, America felt the threat of tears on their behalf, but fought the emotions down. 

“It’s almost time,” America jumped when Cinna placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Yeah…” America turned to his brother, who stood subdued and anxious, picking at his fingernails. Breaking from Cinna’s touch, America moved to Canada’s side, placing his hand on his elbow to draw his attention. Canada’s eyes lifted from his hands, watery violet searching his face as if he’d never see it again. Giving him as sincere of a smile as he could muster, America squeezed his brother’s elbow.

“We’re gonna be alright,” he pacified. The sadness in Canada’s eyes deepened, but he gave America a heavy smile anyway. The moment was broken by a squeal, their heads snapping up towards the girls. Dawn attempted to yank her arm free from her stylist’s grip.

“No!” she screeched, finally breaking away with a jerk. Ava had already taken off towards the brothers, Dawn stumbling after her until they lept into America and Canada’s arms, crying and begging incoherently. 

Tightening his grip on Dawn, America glared at the girls’ stylists, who approached with raised, placating hands as if cornering wild animals. Shooting a call for aid towards Cinna with his eyes, America’s jaw tensed when he only shook his head sadly, not moving to their support. 

“Now, girls, it’s time to go,” Dawn’s stylist spoke with the authority of a schoolteacher ordering her unruly students to sit. Taking a menacing step forward, America placed himself between the stylists and other tributes.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. The stylist had the good sense to look uncomfortable.

“Well, it’s time to board the hovercrafts,” she explained. America’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but the stylist did not back off. “The male and female tributes will be taking different crafts to the arena.” It took a moment for that to register with America.

“They’ll stay with us,” he told her, suddenly feeling extra protective of the small girls behind him. The stylist only tsked.

“Procedure says-”

“To hell with procedure! They want to stay with us!” His voice rose dangerously, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him from saying anything else. Turning sharply to the touch, lips parted in a growl, he relaxed his anger when faced with his brother’s exhausted eyes. 

“Alfred,” Canada warned, an order to stand down. Shooting a final scowl at the stylist, America backed away slowly, making room for Canada as he crouched in front of the girls. They sniffled and cried, teary eyes begging Canada not to leave them, and he took each of their red-blotched cheeks in his hands. 

“Be strong,” he told them simply, a soft, pained smile on his lips. “Be strong, and we’ll see each other again soon.” Ava cried harder, Dawn’s lips turning down further.

“We can’t!” Dawn cried, “we can’t, I want to go home!”

Brow drawn tight and swallowing thickly, Canada placed his forehead against hers, not removing his grounding touch on either girls’ cheeks.

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.” He took a shaky breath. “Be strong. You are both so, so strong.” Backing away, he looked them both in the eyes one after another. 

“Will we see you again before… before-” Ava’s sniffling died down just enough for her to speak, voice breaking before she could finish the sentence. Glancing up at Dawn’s stylist, she gave him a small shake of her head, and Canada turned his gaze heavily back to the children.

“No, I’m sorry.” A fresh wave of tears poured from the childrens’ eyes and they threw themselves at him. He simply hugged them back, chin resting on Dawn’s shoulder. “Just remember what we talked about. Follow the plan, and we’ll see each other again soon.”

From where America stood, only able to watch, the injustice of it all crashed into him again. It was always the same, year after year. Children suffered and died. And for what?

Guards materialised, pulling the huddle of tributes apart. The girls’ crying devolved into screams as they were dragged away from Canada, loud and piercing as they were half-dragged, half-carried from the room until sliding doors cut them off. Canada only watched quietly, standing solemnly in the resulting quiet.

Cinna approached carefully, placing an apologetic hand on America’s shoulder.

“Take a few minutes,” he allowed, turning towards an opposite door, Ayano hesitantly trailing behind him.

Now alone, the brothers stood in silence. America grappled for what to say, searching the disheartened look on his brother’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Canada beat him to it, still not looking at him.

“Alfred,” he barely breathed his brother’s name, “Al, you won’t- We’re really in this together, right?”

The floor dropped from under America’s feet, replaced by surprise. Did Canada think anything different?

“Of course,” America said, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. A memory from the training room crossed his mind, and he moved forward to grip his brother’s upper arms. Canada did not pull away, but also did not look at him. “Is this about what the Careers said? Mattie, c’mon. You’re my ally, my best friend, and my brother. It’s always been you and me, and that’s not changing anytime soon.”

“I- I know. It’s just, I…” Canada gave a deep sigh, struggling to collect himself. “I’m sorry. About the interviews. I couldn’t keep it together, and I don’t want to let you down-”

“You won’t.” America pulled his brother forward into a hug. “Mattie, that wasn’t your fault. Things are bad, but we’re going to make it through this. We have each other, just like always, and that’s not about to change.”

For a moment, Canada remained perfectly still, before his arms came up around America’s back.

“You’re right,” he said, relaxing fully into the hug. “You’re right, you and me - I’m sorry. Thank you, Al.”

America smiled into the side of Canada’s head, happy to just hold him for a few moments. Who knew when he’d next get the chance. As they parted, Canada’s watery eyes looked gratefully into America’s, giving him a shaky, embarrassed smile.

“I guess we should get going,” Canada said, voice just a little more confident. “It’s game time.”

\----

The seats in the hovercraft were uncomfortable, the harnesses constricting and claustrophobic. Around him, many of the male tributes America had come to recognise were strapped into their own seats. To his left, the two young boys from District 3 sat buried in their harnesses, blond mushroom-cuts barely concealing their darting eyes. Italy and Romano were not present - they must have been loaded onto another craft. 

Across from him, however, the huge man from District 1 that had punched Canada during training sat alongside his brother and other Career-types, glaring at them with an intimidating sneer. The look was enough to make America angry, but Canada feigned ease, focus locked on fiddling with the hem of his shirt. America was happy to glare back for both of them.

A hulking, scrub-garbed man appeared in front of Canada, holding a gun-like device and yanking up the sleeve of Canada’s arm. Cinna had warned them that they’d have tracking chips inserted into their arms, but America sent a supportive glance Canada’s way, only to find his brother’s eyes wide, mouth agape as he stared up at the attendant like he’d taken a punch to the gut.

Puzzled, America followed his brother’s gaze up, up, and  _ up. _ The man was  _ huge, _ towering over the sitting North Americans with the presence of a brick wall. Finally, his eyes reached the man's face, and his blood froze in his veins.

_ No way. _

Those round cheeks, that nose, the pale hair, that  _ smile. _

_ It’s Russia! _

There was no scarf covering his throat, the skin matte with heavy makeup, but it was undeniable. If he recognised the North Americans, he made no demonstration of it, flipping Canada’s forearm and jamming the barrel of the tracker-implanting device into the exposed flesh with the same ease as he’d done all the others. 

Canada’s jaw was open, still searching the man’s face for any sign of recognition. When the device fired the pill-sized transmitter into his arm without warning, he yelped sharply in surprise. The Careers laughed from their seats. 

Rubbing his arm in embarrassment, Canada diverted his eyes to the floor. The attendant side-stepped so he stood in front of America, gripping his forearm and pulling the trigger without second thought, the whole experience painful but over before in a flash. America kept his gaze on the man’s face, and for a moment, those red-violet eyes locked with his own. A heartbeat, and they were gone, moving on to the blond children sitting next to him and never once looking back.

Twisting to face Canada, they shared a stunned look, before turning back to watch as the man completed his task and disappeared through a sliding metal door.

\----

War senses tingling, America and Canada followed the guards leading them through the dark tunnels side-by-side, the catacombs beneath the arena twisting and winding. The walls gave the sense that they’d been hastily dug, with rough stone edges exposed and crunching dirt coating the floor. They’d lost sight of the other tributes ages ago, and would not be seeing them again until the games began. Lining the walls of the tunnel were angry, red countdown timers, and when America allowed himself to glance at one, he came away with a nervous sweat. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes to prepare, forty-five minutes of remaining safety.

Eventually, the guards halted the brothers before a small, unassuming door, opening it with the swipe of a keycard and motioning to enter. When they did, the door clicked shut behind them, leaving them alone in their Launch Room. A small table and stools sat in the corner for while they waited, but neither of them approached, their attentions captured by the raised Launch Pad in the back of the room.

Jumping when the door swished open behind them, America and Canada turned sharply, at the ready. Cinna entered with Ayano behind him, both cradling boxes of equipment in their arms, and the brothers relaxed their stances. The door slid shut with a final click.

Silently, the four stood, facing each other until a woman’s voice over the intercoms reminded them that they only had half an hour remaining prior to launch.

“Let’s get you ready,” Cinna sighed. 

Unpacking their uniforms for the arena, Cinna delicately laid each piece out on the table, examining the contents of the packages they’d been given. Dark burgundy undershirts, pale red jackets, and lightweight, copper pants. Red, red, red. The colour of the failed rebellion. The colour of blood.

Solemnly, the stylists assisted the tributes in changing, handing them the pieces and helping with straps. As Cinna adjusted the jacket around America’s shoulders, he absently rubbed the material between his fingertips, humming thoughtfully. 

“It’s pretty thin. Heat reflective, breathes easily. Might get a little hot out there,” he warned. Canada sighed disheartedly from where Ayano helped him buckle his belt, much to his visible discomfort. 

Sliding his feet into his new boots, America stretched his arms, twisting his body and kicking his legs to test the fit. When done, Cinna appeared before him, smoothing his shoulders again and straightening the jacket. 

“Don’t forget the final touch,” he said, fishing into his pocket. America smiled when he saw his pin cradled in Cinna’s fingers. He’d lost track of it after the opening ceremonies, and in all the craziness, had not thought to ask after it. Honestly, he figured Panem had had it destroyed. Petting the smooth surface lightly with his finger where Cinna had clipped the pin to his jacket, he gave the stylist a grateful smile, noticing the sad creases in his dark features.

“Thank you,” America said, letting Cinna pull him into a caring hug. Upon releasing him, Cinna’s hand appeared on his cheek, neither awkward or uncomfortable. His cool fingers felt refreshing against America’s stress-heated skin.

“Good luck, Alfred,” he wished genuinely. After receiving a bittersweet smile and nod, he turned to Canada, Ayano having finished her goodbyes and standing off to the side. He approached slowly, respectful of Canada’s concentrated expression, his head bowed and eyes closed in thought. 

Gently, Cinna placed his hand on the side of Canada’s jaw, lifting his face. 

“Chin up,” he told him softly, easing the distrust in Canada’s eyes. With a subdued, good-natured huff, Cinna swept the loose hair hanging over Canada’s face aside, reaching into his pocket with his free hand. “I have something for you, too.”

In his open palm sat a small yellow band, two golden, leaf-shaped charms hanging from an attached loop. Canada’s eyes studied the nine-pointed leaves then raised uncertainly to Cinna’s, eyebrows raised delicately. Cinna laughed. “I know it’s a bit feminine, but it made me think of you.”

With an amused smile, Cinna carded his fingers though Canada’s hair, collecting it in the back and binding it in the hair tie. America couldn’t see Canada’s expression from where he stood, but his shoulders rose with a sharp inhale at the touch. Humming in success, Cinna took a step back, turning Canada to face them all with a hand on his arm. 

The band kept most of Canada’s hair pulled back behind his head, though some still fell forward in front of his ears. Hesitantly, his hand reached up to his hair, fingers caressing the small charms as his eyes found his brother’s.

America smiled, bittersweet and small, watching the evolving look of bewilderment on his brother’s face. With his hair tied up, their battle preparations were truly complete. Hand retreating to his side, Canada gave Cinna a sad smile of gratitude.

“Thank you,” he whispered, almost too quiet to be heard. With a tender grin of his own, Cinna opened his arms to accept the hug Canada had begun giving, placing his chin on the other’s shoulder. 

“And good luck to you, Matthew.”

“ _ All tributes, please make your way to the Launch Pad and prepare for launch. All tributes, prepare for launch. _ ”

Breaking the hug, the stylists and tributes stood in a loose half-circle before the Launch Pad, America and Canada collecting themselves to the best of their abilities. With deep breaths and sharp nods, they took the two steps onto the platform together, skin pale and sweat-slicked as they turned back to the room behind them.

Cinna and Ayano stood side-by-side at the base of the steps, expressions unreadable as they waited in silence. All too soon, a glass cylinder dropped down, sealing the brothers inside. 

Nerves mixed with claustrophobia in America’s stomach, and he had to brace himself against the glass and his brother when the platform began to rise a few moments later, carrying them to the arena above. Rows of ghostly blue lights flashed by as the tube rose, shining an unnaturally sickly glow across Canada’s skin and glasses. 

In the near pitch-darkness, America watched a bead of sweat trail down Canada’s cheek, his hand finding his brother’s by instinct alone. They gave a quick squeeze of each other’s hand in the safety of the darkness, before the blinding light of day forced their eyes shut and hands apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for Part 2!   
> The chapters in the arena are consistently longer, so I will be changing the update schedule to once a week on Saturdays. See you next week for the beginning of the games!


	15. PART 3 - THE GAMES (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game time, game time, game time! Who do you think is going to win?
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: violence, blood, minor character death, dehydration, cursing.

PART 3 - THE GAMES (I)

“ _ Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin! _ ”

Panem stood before the wall-mounted screen in his private study, fingers toying with the silver pocket watch in his hand. Locking his view on a pair of tall, blond tributes, he watched their faces, their eyes jumping over their surroundings and adversaries. He allowed his enjoyment to show only through the faintest quirking of his lips.

He couldn’t wait to see them struggle. Those foolish nations, the ones who had raised him, ignorant of his desires, his  _ needs. _ He’d claimed this world as  _ his, _ and his alone. There remained no room for expired powers of the past - his world existed perfectly without them, and without them it would stay.

He’d shown them his worth already twice before; these special games would only be the third chance to prove himself over those who once believed to have  _ owned _ him. The prospect drove a tingle up his spine.

They would not survive the next few days, weeks - however long it took to end them. Panem would see to it himself if he had to.

The timer at the bottom of the screen continued to drop. It beat in time with the  _ tick-tock _ of the grandfather clock in his study. Clicking open the pocket watch, Panem checked the time. Perfect tandem. Everything was perfect. A white-gloved hand tucked a loose strand of snowy hair back in its place. Pale-dusted lips lifted further.

This moment was perfect. He would relish it. As the timer crawled to zero, those ex-nations - now mere children compared to him - shared a tense nod, jaws clenched and hands fisted, skin blanched and panicked. 

The grandfather clock chimed the hour, the timer clicked to zero. Panem’s smile cracked into a smirk, his hand closing over the pocket watch, suffocating it as his arms took to the air on either side of him.

_ Dance for me, my brothers. _

\----

America’s arm shielded his eyes from the sun as their platform locked into place. Canonfire began counting down the sixty all-too-short seconds he would have to gain his bearings, to form a plan.

Squinting against the light, he scanned his surroundings as soon as his vision adjusted enough to see, absorbing information through the distracted hammering of his heart in his ears. Around the clearing, tributes stood in their twin pairs in a circle, each equidistant from each other and the massive golden horn of the Cornucopia in the centre. 

America and Canada had been positioned to the side of it, the precious contents of survival gear, food, and weapons spilling out of reach. However, on the rough, dirt ground leading up to their platform sat loose bags and weapons. A nearby backpack could be theirs, along with the duffel a few paces farther. If time allowed, a third bag nearer the Cornucopia might also be plausible. America suppressed the urge to jump at them, knowledge of the awaiting landmines freezing him in place.

Plan ready, he turned back to his surroundings. He did not see Dawn and Ava - they must have been placed opposite to them, concealed from view by the Cornucopia.

_ Good, _ he thought, glancing above the Cornucopia at the sun. The golden horn and other tributes would not be in their way.

Italy and Romano stood about seven platforms to the right, eyes wide and necks craned upwards. Taken aback by their expressions, America followed their attention, finally allowing himself to examine the arena proper. 

At least, he would have, had his vision not been impeded by the structure around them. Jaw dropping, his gaze skirted across the edges of the stone bowl in which they stood, jumping over archways and cracked pillars. It towered over them, empty, broken bleachers and walkways dwarfing the tributes and dirt clearing below. 

“Wha- is this the  _ Colosseum? _ ” Canada gaped at America’s side, just as surprised. It left them completely unprepared for the sudden, sounding gong. 

The noise shook America’s bones, flipping the contents of his stomach. Tributes scrambled into action around them, some springing towards the supplies of the Cornucopia and others retreating to the outer archways. Captivation immediately forgotten, America leapt from his platform, Canada a half-pace behind.

Feet pounding him forward, he raced towards the Cornucopia, sliding to the ground to swipe a backpack from the dirt before scrambling to the next. Canada dove for a lone knife, ducking below the swinging arm of an oncoming tribute and slashing the air a hair’s breadth from the boy’s face. The tribute fled when Canada snarled warningly at him before joining America’s side, the other hooking a mesh bag of apples to his belt. 

On his feet again, America lunged for his next target: the duffel lying next to a loose pile of knives. Trusting his brother to watch his back, he unzipped the bag with a tug, dumping in the blades and lugging the strap over his shoulder. Someone screamed nearby, blood raining on the ground somewhere in front of him, but he kept his eyes away from the body that tumbled to the dirt.

Metal clashed to his left, Canada exchanging blows with an older woman and distracting her long enough for America to add the second backpack to their haul.

“Mattie, let’s go!” he called, their immediate area cleared of easy loot. With a sound kick to the woman’s abdomen, Canada appeared at his side, relieving him of a backpack and leading the way out the nearest archway into the shadow of the Colosseum. Noting the position of the sun, America caught the flashing sign of Canada’s hand ordering a left turn. Obediently he followed, trailing after his brother along the outside of the building. 

He allowed Canada to guide him, turning his gaze inward as they passed the next open archway, the blood-rusted battleground of the Cornucopia visible for a moment. Bodies lay littered about, Careers crawling over their captured goods like ants on a hill and chasing off remaining tributes. The sight cut off when the archway was replaced by stone, the brothers hugging the outside of the Colosseum as they ran.

Allowing himself his first glance at the arena, he nearly lost his balance down the steep slope to his right. Two stories below, a sea of low, stone buildings sprawled to the horizon, broken only by rare taller buildings or the red rock base of a towering mountain. The mountain eclipsed the arena, drowning the ruined city below and making even the Colosseum feel small in comparison.

America shielded his eyes when they crossed out of the Colosseum’s shadow and into the sun, begging his vision to adjust. In his moment of blindness, a sharp wail snapped his eyes open and forward. Exposed by an open archway in the stone wall, Canada hurled to the side with the appearance of another tribute, sinding them both over the edge of the slope. 

Digging his heels in the dirt, America stumbled to the ground to halt his momentum, scrambling to the slope’s edge to watch his brother tumble downward.

“Matthew!” America called, bracing himself on the solid edge. Canada grappled and rolled with the other tribute, showering stone and dirt around them. Clambering to his feet, America leapt after them, boots skidding and sliding as he desperately tried to control his descent.

The fighting tributes landed hard at the bottom, wrestling for purchase, and America’s heart stopped when the struggle stilled with the human planted definitively above his brother. Scrambling the rest of the way down and sprinting to Canada’s side, he sighed in relief as Canada shoved the body away with a grunt. Blood drained from the girl’s ribs, dusting the ground and staining the front of Canada’s shirt a deep crimson.

“You good?” America wheezed, pulling his brother to a stand and searching for wounds.

“Yeah, blood’s not mine,” Canada panted, hand trembling around his knife. Shuffling to the body, he pried the girl’s weapon from her limp hand. “Here,” he said, tossing the sheathed blade to America. He wasted no time strapping it to his wrist, pointedly ignoring the bloodstains coating the leather. 

With barely a moment to collect themselves, they were on the move again, abandoning the body and Colosseum in favour of the ruined town. Boots thumping on cobblestone, their panted breaths echoed against narrow streets. The rudimentary stone houses stood pressed together, each a single story in height, creating long, maze-like paths that only branched in crossroads. Drooping weeds and tufts of grass pushed through the cracks of the broken city, dotting the stone with dry greens and pale wildflowers. Empty, gaping doorways and windows revealed nothing of the buildings’ interiors, and as Canada navigated, America scanned the shadowed nooks for enemies.

Finally, exhaustion forced them to stop in a small courtyard, America leaning against the side of a long-abandoned fountain whose bottom was as bone-dry and parched as his throat. Sliding the heavy bags of supplies onto the edge of the fountain, he rolled his cramped shoulders, relishing the moment of rest.

After catching his breath, he glanced to Canada, who had the wherewithal to study their surroundings despite his obvious exhaustion. His arm rose protectively over his eyes as he checked the sun’s position, comparing it to the Colosseum. If they traveled counterclockwise around it, America guessed, they should be back on target according to plan.

“What now?” America asked. Canada turned to him, before focusing back on the sky.

“We might have to go back towards the Colosseum a bit,” he admitted. “The chances of finding them will be higher if we follow-”

An ear-splitting boom cut him off, jumping them both and drowning Canada’s voice in the resulting echo. America’s breath hitched, the first cannon fire of the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games signalling the end of the deadliest hour - the bloodbath. 

Turning to Canada, America counted along to his brother’s silent mouthing as each shot rang out. Two, three, four… the number rose and halted at ten, the resounding silence as ominous as the cannon fire that preceded it. 

Ten dead. Not unexpected, but painful nonetheless. America momentarily wondered if their allies might have been among them, merely a cannon shot remaining, but forced the idea away. He didn’t want to even consider it. Canada met his eyes uncertainly, then cleared his throat.

“A-anyway, following their path would probably be our best bet…” he trailed off, boot nervously scuffing at a tuft of weeds as he examined the position of the sun once again. “Any other way and we might miss them.” 

With a lung-emptying sigh, America collected his bags, too tired and parched to complain. Stepping forward to stand next to his twin, they let a moment of silence stretch between them, ears tuned for pursuers, before taking to a jog down the street.

Maneuvering the winding paths of the city, America and Canada were careful to not approach the Colosseum directly, remaining a few blocks outwards to avoid detection. Odds were, any remaining tributes at the Cornucopia wouldn’t be friendly. 

Looping around the start point, Canada kept his attention on the sun, accounting for the passing hours as America scanned the streets for enemies or their allies. Nerves running high, every sound had them jumping, and a sudden cannon shot sent them scrambling for cover behind a crumbling building’s corpse.

All fell silent once the echoes faded, and after a few extra seconds for caution, they picked their way from the rubble and back into the street. Shifting the bags strung from his shoulders, America opened his mouth to comment, but a set of cries cut him off. 

Snapping his head towards the sound, the flinched back upon spotting a group of quickly-approaching tributes, colliding with Canada behind him. The tributes didn’t appear to be Careers, but weapons were raised and they were outnumbered.

“Run!” America shouted, gripping Canada’s arm to steady him and yanking his brother into a sprint. The group of tributes pursued, chasing them blindly down the streets and screaming after them. A knife struck a stone wall near America’s head with a sharp  _ clang, _ the aim not good enough to hit but ducking both of their heads in surprise. 

Moving at full speed, they built a half-block’s distance between them and their pursuers, Canada searching their surroundings with his eyes as he directed their movements. Finally, after a sharp turn down a side street, Canada pointed ahead.

“Al, there!” A crumbling building stood among the others, but America trusted his brother’s judgement, following him into its shadows. Inside, the ceiling had partially crumbled near the back wall, allowing sunlight to pour through the holes. Canada crouched beneath it, hands cupped and flicking his chin in a silent order.

Understanding, America took three long strides, boot landing in Canada’s palms and using the momentum to vault up the stone wall, lifting himself onto the upper ledge. With a twist, he reached down towards his brother, meeting Canada’s hand mid-jump and heaving him upwards onto the wall. In a matter of seconds, they dropped down into the narrow street beyond, the confused shouts of the other tributes muffled by the row of buildings that now separated them. Without wasting time, America and Canada sprinted off down the new street, keeping to the shadows as much as possible until the voices faded to silence. 

Now certain that they were alone, they ducked into the darkness of a relatively intact home, sprawling in the dirt of the hut and panting heavily. Tossing the bags and his sweat-soaked jacket aside, America spread himself across the floor on his back, struggling for every breath of dusty, dry air. Canada laid crumpled nearby, his own body trembling.

_ Fuck, it’s hot, _ America inwardly cursed. The shade of the house provided respite from the beating sun, but did little to stifle the acrid heat of the air.  _ Need… water… _

Turning his head to the bags of supplies, he vowed to search their contents for anything fluid as soon as his muscles stopped screaming. After a few uncomfortable, quiet minutes, America’s breathing finally evened, the sharp pain in his legs fading to dull soreness and leaving his body feeling heavy. 

“ _ Psst! _ ” The sound jolted America like electricity, limbs flailing and stiff as he struggled to sit. Canada was instantly up, crouched on the balls of his feet and knife raised to fight. Eyes darting to the only exit, America scanned for the source of the voice, tired heart pounding again.

Muted shuffling from a small, crumbled hole in the wall drew their attention, shadows too thick to see into the next building it exposed. 

“ _ Alfred, Matthew! _ ” a different, hushed voice whispered, the sound far less harsh than the previous. More scraping came from the hole, before the culprits leaned forward from the darkness, twin blue eyes uncertain and afraid. America’s body immediately relaxed, and Canada flopped back down against the wall.

Tentatively, Dawn crawled out from the hole, Ava following soon after and darting towards the exhausted brothers, arms around their necks and sinking to the floor with them. 

“You’re here! We were so scared,” Dawn admitted, hugging America tighter.

“We followed the sun, just like you told us to,” her sister whimpered against Canada’s shirt. “We waited and waited, but you didn’t come.”

“We thought you were dead.” Dawn’s voice dropped low, barely a whisper as she broke her hug to look at America’s face. Canada smiled sadly from where he was slumped against the wall, hand barely petting Ava’s hair.

“We’re here now. We’re alive…” he croaked, voice hoarse. Leaning his head exhaustedly back against the wall, he swallowed thickly. “Where’re-”

“Oh,  _ goooooooood, _ ” a voice griped from the hole in the wall, heavy with sarcasm as Romano pulled himself through and dusted the rubble from his pants. “You found them! The heroes are here, now we’re all safe! A big, happy-ass family.”

Italy leapt up from behind him a moment later, skipping to his allies with a lot more energy.

“ _ Ciao Matteo, _ Alfred! We found you!” Speaking loudly enough to make America and Canada flinch, Italy pranced to each of them, giving a comforting pat on their shoulders. “You were gone a  _ really _ long time, but we knew you’d make it! Veh,  _ Matteo, _ you’ve got blood on your-!”

America bared his teeth to hush him, but the distant calling of voices silenced the room. Freezing in place, they listened to the approaching crunch of boots and loud, angry conversation. Making eye contact with Canada, America pushed himself to a low crouch, motioning to the Italies to do the same. 

Sore muscles screaming in protest, he shuffled to the hole his allies had appeared from, poking his head through to examine the space. Nodding in satisfaction when he found a window that opened to a hopefully-empty street, he turned back to the others, summoning them forward with his hand. On his stomach, America dragged himself through the small space, heaving back into a crouch on the other side and turning to help Dawn through next.

Romano grumbled under his breath as he struggled through the hole, and Italy followed close behind, appearing far more subdued than before. With ease, Dawn and Ava followed, their small bodies slipping through the tight space without struggle. The voices were louder, the oncoming tributes clearly confident in their numbers. Arms outstretched, America gripped the duffel bag Canada handed to him through the wall, careful to keep the contents from clattering on the ground. As a backpack crossed into his hands, boots crunched chillingly close to the door of the building Canada hadn’t yet evacuated, raising gooseflesh on America’s neck.

Finally, their gear through and secured on America’s back, Canada wormed through the gap unnoticed, pulling himself by his elbows. Tugging him to a crouch, America turned to the window, grateful that Romano had already led the others out into the deserted street. Following with careful vaults, America and Canada joined them, everyone remaining low as America guided them away from the fading voices. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a particularly exciting chapter, but hopefully the gear they've found will give a few hints as to what this arena's gonna be like :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: dehydration, cursing.

Following their escape from the hunting tributes, the group carried quietly on, putting as much distance between them and the Colosseum as they could while the sun crawled above. The mountain loomed above, and through the shimmering of the hot air, America almost imagined he could make out structures in the crags and shadows along its sides.

They’d been walking for hours, the only sounds their own breaths and the soles of their boots on the stone streets. Faintly, America wondered why there were no insects - could the blasted, staggering heat be too much even for them?  _ God, _ America could kill for a glass of water. And, he realised with a shudder, he might have to. 

As a distraction from the heat, he glanced over his allies, assessing. The two young girls stumbled exhaustedly over loose stones and weeds as they struggled to keep up the already snail-like pace, and faring no better was Italy, hanging from a slouched Romano’s sleeve. Canada had found his way to the head of the group, as attentive as he could manage, casting worried glances over his shoulder at his weary companions. America hoped his brother would call a break soon. He’d do it himself, but opening his mouth ran the risk of losing the dust his tongue had become. He made eye-contact with Canada, and his brother gave him a sluggish nod.

“Let’s stop for a bit,” Canada offered, tugging the straps of his backpack further up his shoulders. Italy and the girls practically melted to the ground in relief before being ushered into a nearby doorway.

The squat, single-room house was devoid of any furniture, the walls and floor a patchwork of stone and clay like all the others. An open window on the back wall could provide an escape route, and a crumbling stairwell revealed an opening to the roof. In the centre of the floor, a shallow dugout was presumably meant to be a firepit, but the idea of starting a fire in this heat turned America’s stomach.

With a collective sigh of exhaustion, the tributes collapsed to the floor, spreading out to seep the coolness from the stone. Hoping for water, America crawled to the edge of the hearth and sat with his feet on the lower level, dragging the duffel with him and unzipping it. Canada appeared at his side a moment later, sluggishly clearing the pit of debris and placing the bronze bucket that had been inside it nearby. When he finally sat next to America, a backpack in his lap, the sound of the zipper seemed to summon their allies, the Italies peeling themselves from the floor and the girls slinking forward from the corner to join them.

With a grateful smile, Canada handed Romano the other backpack, scooting over to make room for Dawn and Ava on either side of him to allow them to help search. Feet planted in the dirt of the firepit, the tributes carefully peeked into the bags America and Canada had grabbed from the Cornucopia, breaths held as they silently hoped for a successful haul.

“ _ Water! _ ” Romano screeched, hoisting a plastic bottle out of his backpack and unscrewing the cap in one rushed movement, chugging at the contents. Leaping to his feet, America wrenched the bottle from Romano’s lips, turning it upright to not spill the contents.

“What are you _ doing!? _ ” he demanded, lifting the bottle out of reach when Romano tried to swipe it back. “What if it's the only one!?”

“ _ Bastardo! _ ” Romano screeched, leaping to reach it. “I found it first! It’s  _ mine! _ ”

America suppressed the urge to punch him, his hand crushing down around the bottle without allowing it to break. Around Romano’s abdomen, Italy’s arms looped to pull him back.

“Stop it, Lovi!” he begged. “We need to share!”

The sound of his brother’s hoarse voice seemed to snap Romano from his anger, and he lowered his hands to push Italy off. Turning away, he crossed his arms, slumping back down to his corner of the pit.

“I was gonna save some for you, idiot,” he mumbled to his brother. 

With a sharp huff, America returned to his seat, examining the bottle. It was still half-full, so he retrieved and screwed on the cap, placing it in the hearth next to the mesh bag of apples. The urge to drink was almost unmanageable, but he needed to assess their supplies before divvying them out.

Returning to his duffel, he picked out the handful of throwing knives he had tossed in back at the Cornucopia, relieved to find food and other lifesaving supplies beneath. Pulling out more water bottles, he lifted them gratefully, passing them out to the others with orders to ration and returning Romano’s bottle to him with a glare. Refreshed by their drinks, they continued sifting through their gear, feeling much more rejuvenated than before. 

“The hell?” Romano swore, nose buried in the backpack he and Italy were still searching. America resisted the urge to grunt in annoyance, simply turning his attention from his own task. From the depths of the bag, Romano’s hand retracted, cupping several black, spherical items and lifting them for the others to see. Leaning in closer to examine the glossy objects in the falling evening light, America blinked in surprise, irritation forgotten.

“Are those  _ grenades? _ ” Canada gasped, equally shocked.

“Obviously,” Romano snorted, adding two more to the three he had already placed in the dirt. Glancing back into the backpack, he groaned, face suddenly pale. “Great, it gets better. No wonder this bag was so freaking heavy.”

Carefully extracting the contents, he pulled out a rectangular, tan package. Strips of black tape wrapped around the fabric covering of the object, fastening a small, silver box to the front.

“C-4,” he informed them helpfully, lifting it to show off the clipped-on detonation remote.

“There are two more in here as well,” Italy chirped, not-so-delicately turning the bag over and dumping the contents on the ground. Romano bristled, snatching the backpack from his brother with a screech. Blanching, America exchanged a look with Canada. They had abused that bag, fighting with and hauling it on their backs for  _ hours, _ and the contents had been  _ high explosives? _ One wrong move, and they’d have been smudges on the ground.

“What are these?” Dawn asked, inching forward and removing a grenade from Romano’s pile. Leaping forward, Romano wrenched it from her curious fingers.

“ _ Don’t touch that! _ ” he shrieked. “Do you want to kill us all!?”

Dawn retreated back to Canada’s side in a flash. He shot Romano an unimpressed glare, before taking a grenade for himself to carefully show the girls. While Canada explained the explosives to the paling young tributes, America busied himself with organising the items in the pit, ordering Italy to  _ carefully _ stash the explosives in the corner furthest from the door.

From their bags, in addition to the apples, they had found enough food to last the six of them for a few days if rationed carefully. Two packages of instant soup, six cracker packets and bread rolls, a handful of granola bars, two bags of beef jerky, and twelve somewhat-bruised apples in all. They each had their own water bottle, but already those were emptying fast. Finding water would be a priority.

Turning to the non-edibles pile, America took mental stock of their gear and weapons. He’d pulled a bundled blanket and a one-square-metre of plastic tarp from the duffel, joined by a roll of twine from one of the backpacks, three firestarters, a flashlight, and a first aid kit, which Canada began rifling through as soon as he was done with his explosives lesson. For weapons, America counted six throwing knives, two hunting knives - one of which was Canada’s, the other the sheathed blade on his own wrist - and oddly enough, a garden spade. Of course, the explosives in the corner could also be weapons if used cleverly, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk anyone losing a limb.

Pleased with their haul, America next divided the item into three separate piles - one to be carried by him and Canada, another for Italy and Romano, and one for the girls. Food he split as evenly as possible, while the heavier gear he decided to keep with his pile, since he would be less impeded by the weight. His brother also insisted on keeping the bronze bucket from the fire pit, which he volunteered to carry himself.

Supply preparations complete, America summoned the group to discuss weapons, Canada scooting over from where he was repackaging the first aid kit while Italy and the girls appeared from the stairs to the roof. Romano joined them a few seconds later, abandoning his watch at the door.

“The grenades are mine,” Romano claimed, crossing his arms and shooting off glares to anyone who looked like they might object.

“I choose this one!” Italy called, leaping on the handheld spade and raising it above his head like a sword. America only looked at him uncertainly, wondering if it was worth arguing.

“That’s not a weapon, you idiot!” Romano snatched the gardening tool from his brother’s hands, scrutinising the blade before tossing it over his shoulder. Whining like a puppy, Italy picked himself off the floor to retrieve the spade, returning to the pit with shovel in hand. With dangerously gritting teeth, Romano stalked forward to face his brother. “What did I tell you, stupid? You need a real weapon!”

Scooping a handful of throwing knives off the ground at his feet, he plopped them into Italy’s lap, who only looked at them in confusion.

“Why do you get to have something cool but I have to have knives?” he complained. Feeling his patience waning and sighing in frustration, America crossed to the bickering brothers, nabbing three of the knives in each hand and shoving them handle-first towards both Italians’ chests.

“Look, you each get three. End of story.” He backed off when both brothers relented to the tone of his voice, returning to his seat and grabbing the final knife on the pile.

“Girls,” he said, tone hard as he turned to Dawn and Ava. “I know you don’t like knives, but at least one of you should have a weapon to protect you both.” He held the handle towards Dawn, who fervently shook her head. When he tried Ava, she turned her eyes away and sat with finality on her hands, pouting. Gathering the final shreds of his patience, America stood, tucking the knife into his belt as he turned away from them.

“Whatever. I’ll hold onto it for you,” he grunted. “Just until you change your minds.”

“...You didn’t mention the C-4,” Canada pointed out, seamlessly changing the topic. “Alfred, your bag is going to be pretty heavy already. I don’t mind taking them.”

“Fine,” America replied, too emotionally spent to argue. Truthfully, he was fully opposed to his brother’s backpack being filled with explosives, but the unspoken other options would be the girls (not happening) or the Italies (a disaster in the waiting).

With the supplies divided and stored, they ate a light meal of apples and bread rolls before the setting sun called it a night. For ease of watch, they relocated to the roof, spreading the blanket over the sun-warmed stone as the arrival of night brought relief from the sweltering heat.

“I’ll take first watch,” America offered as Canada settled into the blanket with the girls, his shirt turned backwards to keep their faces out of the bloodstains. 

“Oh- _ ho, _ no you don’t,” Romano snapped, appearing at America’s side with crossed arms. “There’s no way we can trust you,  _ bastardo. _ I’ll be keeping an eye on you!”

America only shrugged, not up for a confrontation.

“Fine, do what you want.” Plopping down at the top of the stairs, America settled himself in for his shift. He could feel Romano’s glares hot on his skin, but pointedly ignored him. Romano was annoying, but America wasn’t so cruel as to abandon the only other survivors of the old world in cold blood. _ Yet. _ If Romano kept the tough-guy act up, he might reconsider.

Casting a quick glance Canada’s way, his mood softened as he watched his brother point out emerging constellations to the girls through the shimmering of the force field keeping them trapped in the arena. His memory of the accompanying stories was impressive, and the Nation People present found themselves listening in, even if Romano pretended otherwise. 

When Panem’s anthem cut a story short, all eyes turned to the bright projection in the sky, ready to announce the day’s fallen tributes. America sat taller from where he had slouched against the half-wall, waiting and nervous.

Faces of the dead appeared, the same images used for the training scores, though this time accompanied only by their district numbers. Both girls from District 3 had fallen, their smiling faces appearing first and side-by-side. The girls from 5 then replaced them, one of which America recognised as the tribute Canada had slain at the Colosseum. The one whose blood stained the leather sheath on America’s arm. No images appeared for District 4, and America noted with disappointment that all of the Careers had survived.

He added a boy from 6, a man from 7, another boy from 9, a boy and a girl from 10, and both of 11’s women to his tally. The announcement ended there, the projection flicking off and casting the arena into darkness once again.

Eleven dead. Eleven people, each with families and friends grieving their losses back home. Even in the arena, America realised with a sinking heart, families grieved tonight. Five sets of twins had been torn apart, the survivors carrying on alone.

America looked at Canada, catching his eyes and searching his brother’s face in the darkness. Without him, America didn’t think he even wanted to win. He would make it out with Canada by his side or not at all, he decided. Canada broke eye contact when Ava readjusted herself against him, rubbing tears from her eyes with her sleeve and burying her face deeper into his shirt, leaving America’s thoughts to wander.

Lost siblings brought Panem to mind. It was late, but he wouldn’t be sleeping yet, America decided - assuming he slept at all anymore. They never could get the kid to sleep full nights. As a side thought, America wondered if Panem still spent his insomniac nights beading strings, or humming to himself. What about his talent for the violin? Had he abandoned his old hobbies?

The image of the tall, cold man of today did not overlay with that of the child America and Canada had taken care of centuries ago. That boy had long disappeared, corrupted by power and scratched out like the drawings Panem used to scribble over when they didn’t turn out. 

Taking a deep breath to clear the thoughts, America checked on the Italies, finding them curled together in the corner as Romano hugged his brother to sleep. Glad his fellow guard had given up on glaring at him, America rested his back against the half-wall, preparing himself for the night.

\----

He awoke with a start some time later, chin leaping from his chest to search the rooftop for what had woken him. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It was still dark, and Canada and the girls dozed where he had left them. Italy had joined them on the blanket at some point as well.

“So, Sleeping Beauty’s awake,” Romano hissed nearby. Startling, America turned to face him, finding the Italian crouched along the edge of the roof with his finger over his lips in a signal for silence. Crawling to his side, America followed the flick of Romano’s chin with his eyes, keeping low and scanning the road.

He froze when a lone tribute appeared, sprinting down the street. The boy’s blond hair and pale flesh shone in the blue light of the moon, wet from sweat or tears or both. Following with his eyes until the boy disappeared from sight, America almost relaxed, when a group appeared in pursuit.

Breath held, America shot a glance at his sleeping companions, willing them to remain silent until the danger passed. The tributes below ran by, snickering and brash, oblivious to those watching from above. When their voices faded into the distance, America and Romano finally released their held breaths, turning from the street to sit against the half-wall. 

“How long was I out?” America asked in defeat, rubbing his sore eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Dunno. An hour?” Scoffing, Romano replied. “If you weren’t such a lazy fatass, maybe I wouldn’t have to cover for you.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” America huffed.

“Whatever you say,  _ bastardo. _ ” With a yawn, Romano crossed the roof and flopped down next to Italy. “I’m taking a nap. Don’t wake me.”

America almost laughed at how quickly Romano went under, snoring the moment his head hit his bundled-jacket pillow. With a chuckle and a shake of his head, America resettled into his watch, making sure a sharp stone dug into his back to prevent sleep. 

Barely ten minutes went by when the crack of a cannon jolted him upright, his companions jerking awake and struggling to gain their bearings. When all else was quiet, Italy and Romano collapsed bonelessly back to the blanket and Canada’s grip on the now wide-awake children loosened. Even in the darkness, however, America could see the shaking of his brother’s hands, eyes jumping skittishly as he overcame the shock of the awakening.

Calming heartbeats quickened again when a hovercraft flew overhead, the near-silent craft appearing from nowhere and stopping a few blocks over. With tightened throats, the tributes watched as the hull opened, a claw dipping down into the buildings below and reappearing a few moments later, skeletal fingers wrapped around a body lit by the craft’s searchlights. America’s heart squeezed when he made out a flash of blond hair before the murdered tribute was gone, swallowed by the belly of the Capitol’s hovercraft and carried off into the night.

America and Canada’s eyes met, and Canada gave him a subtle quirk of his head, offering to take a turn on watch. With a grateful smile, America accepted.

In the heavy silence, America let his head drop back against the stone wall, eyes slipping closed in a desperate attempt to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rubs hands together* Ready? Let me show you my arena's special trick.  
> (This is a day late I'm sorry... have a slightly longer chapter to make up for it?)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: paranoia, violence, minor character death, somewhat graphic depictions of burns, cursing.

“I spy with my little eye, something…” Italy hummed, tapping his chin with a finger, “...hard.”

Immediately, Ava and Dawn perked up, searching the length of the road good-naturedly at Italy’s attempted distraction. Their faces dropped as they came to terms with the fact that their stony surroundings were all, in fact,  _ hard. _

Canada smiled tightly from where he walked, the girls at his side flanked protectively between him and Italy. Rolling his eyes, America continued silently behind them, staying on guard and as alert as possible. Next to him, Romano had also fallen behind the others, trudging grumpily through the dusty streets without sparing America a glance.

Awakening with the sun, they’d abandoned their temporary shelter early, hoping to beat the midday heat as they distributed the gear and tossed their bags over their shoulders. Today, the plan was to search for water, quickly-emptying bottles a reminder of their most pressing concern. 

Keeping the mountain to their right, they continued outward from the Cornucopia, hoping that they might find something other than thin stone streets along the outer edge of the arena. There was no way of knowing how far the boundaries stretched, but they’d walked far enough that one of the tall buildings America had noticed from the Colosseum had scaled their view a few blocks over. For safety’s sake, they gave it a wide berth, hoping to avoid a confrontation with any curious tributes.

“Is it this rock?” Ava asked hopefully, breaking away from Canada’s side to plant herself on a piece of rubble.

“Nope~!” Italy sang, nearly skipping from excitement.

“Is it…  _ that _ rock?” Dawn tried, skeptical of the game’s fairness.

“Incorrect!” Pulling a few paces ahead, Italy turned back to his companions with a grin, drawing on energy America wished he shared.

“How about this one?” Ava asked, placing her foot on a large chunk of crumbled wall.

“Wrong again!” 

From the corner of his eye, America saw Canada shake his head playfully.

“Feliciano,  _ is it _ a rock?” he asked with a chuckle, his unwitting smile inviting a laugh from Italy.

“Maybe~!” Spinning, Italy raised his arms, motioning to the rubble around them. “But  _ Matteo, _ you have to find the right one!”

At America’s shoulder, Romano gave a scoff. He’d kept quiet all day, reluctantly keeping pace with America as they maneuvered the streets. Between scanning their surroundings and half-listening to his brother’s conversation, America gave Romano a look. They’d have to get over their differences eventually, he figured - especially if they wanted to be able to depend on each other when things inevitably went south.

“So…” America started, uncertain how to break the ice but growing uncomfortable with the awkwardness. What can be said to someone he hadn’t seen in three-quarters of a century? Someone destined to be his enemy, to die so America could live?

“Um, how’s life?” he asked, quickly adding “-in District 8!” when Romano glared daggers at him. Romano’s lungs emptied in an unenthusiastic sigh, and America hoped he wouldn’t pick a fight.

“Sucks,” he grunted helpfully, shifting his gaze to his brother. America thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile when Italy laughed up ahead, but within a split second Romano’s features hardened again, eyes finding the knives tucked into the waistband of his brother’s pants. “But not as bad as this.”

The conversation effectively died with the grumble of Romano’s voice, and America was too distracted with keeping watch to think of anything else to say. His usual go-to conversation starters -  _ how’s work? Any plans for the weekend? How’s the family?  _ \- all felt horribly inappropriate, given the circumstances, so he just let it drop.

“And you? Heard 12’s a shitty place.” America nearly jumped in surprise, not having expected Romano to carry the conversation along.

“Uh,” he began lamely. “Yeah, I guess it is, but it was alright. A little lonely, maybe.” Eyes drifting to his brother, he caught the tail-end of an exaggerated eye-roll on Canada’s part and couldn’t help the smile it pulled on his mouth. “I had Mattie with me, though. For as many bad times as there were, I’d say there were good memories, too.” He hummed in thought, thinking back on his life in District 12.

“Like, for a while, there was a girl who lived down the lane from us; she had this mangy old cat, it would come around lookin’ for scraps.” He smiled again, remembering the animal’s patchy white fur, how it would purr when Canada set it in his lap, scratching behind its ears with distant eyes as he carded through the pelt with his fingers. “She was a good friend to us, always trying to get us to take bread she couldn’t afford as thanks for looking after the cat. We didn’t accept, of course - she couldn’t understand, but that silly animal provided the companionship that another…  _ person _ never could, y’know?” Romano only grunted, the only sign he was even listening.

“The cat died years ago,” America reminisced. “Buried it in the meadow. And that girl…”

He took a deep breath, remembering the cameras trained on him at the last moment.

“Well… I hope her grandchildren are doing well.”

He’d rambled a bit, his attention on their surroundings slipping, though Romano seemed to have kept up the watch, demeanour indifferent. A few stagnant minutes passed, nothing new happening as the group carried on down the street. America absently kicked a loose rock with his foot, showering dust and beheading a wildflower in the process.

“We tried baking a cake once,” Romano suddenly declared. Surprised, America lifted his eyebrows, flicking him a quick glance before returning his gaze to the shadowed doorways of the buildings. “It was awful. Bad ingredients, didn’t rise or whatever. Dense as your head and tasted like ass.”

“You happen to know what that tastes like?” America smirked, the response automatic after years of bantering with his brother. For a second or horror, he worried he was in danger of being skewered by one of the Italian’s knives, but Romano only sputtered and collected himself in record time, tomato-red from the tips of his ears to below his collar.

“Sure, Eyebrows made me eat his scones, once.”

America gave a hearty laugh despite himself at the quick response. Shaking his head good-naturedly, he swore he caught the tail end of a satisfied smile on Romano’s lips before a comfortable silence settled.

Up ahead, Ava had convinced Italy to let him hold her hand, or perhaps vice-versa, and they chatted in hushed tones, the Italian’s plans to lighten the mood clearly having paid off. Even Dawn kept pace with more energy in her step than America had seen from her since the games began, leaning close to hear what her sister and Italy discussed while Canada oversaw like a protective mother. 

Romano’s eyes were wistful, and this time, America noted, he really did smile.

“I’m going to protect him, you know,” Romano said, carefully serious. He eyed his brother’s back with intensity, determination in the set of his brow. Humming thoughtfully, America moved his gaze to his own brother, watching him smile with a particular gentleness when Italy and the girls turned to him, looking for his thoughts.

It remained unspoken: they were tentative friends for now, but the reality that only two of them could walk away from the arena alive hovered on the edge of all of their thoughts. 

“I know,” America replied, leaving the comforting sight of his brother’s face to look at Romano’s. “That goes for me, too.”

Their eyes met for a moment, understanding passing between them in silent threats and apologies. Finally returning to their jobs as lookouts, America felt the edge of his guilt dull, comfortable that when all was said and done, there’d be no hard feelings.

\----

“ _ Hey, bastard, look! _ ” Romano hissed into America’s ear. Dropping his water bottle from his lips, America turned, immediately on alert and following the Italian’s jerky signalling from the shadows where they’d stopped to rest. Searching the length of the road with his eyes, America initially came up empty, sharpening his focus when Romano gave a new flurry of pointing. The dusty street they’d just come from remained as barren and quiet as all the others they’d passed.

Then, movement caught his eye, ducking him next to Romano in the cover of surrounding rubble with his hand on his knife. Gaze locked on his last sighting - a small gap between two buildings about a block away - America waited with sharpened focus until two small heads appeared, scanning the street in their direction. Squinting his eyes, America couldn’t immediately identify the tributes, but they were young, no older than fifteen, with slender bodies and sunken, sharp features. Both boys had unruly black hair, the wild tufts coated in dirt, and from what America could see, they hadn’t yet experienced combat and did not appear to have weapons.

“Oh, you noticed them?” Canada’s voice next to America’s ear made him flinch, blade drawn towards the sound. Blinking apologetically down at his brother, Canada turned to face the young tributes peering back at him. “They’ve been following us for a while. District 5’s boys, I’m pretty sure. I’ve been keeping an eye on them, but so far, they’re not causing trouble.”

Giving his brother a reassuring smile, Canada crossed back to where he’d been sitting with Italy and the girls, plopping into the dirt to sip at his water.

_ They’ve been following us for a while. _ The thought ran a shiver down America’s spine. How had he not noticed? He was supposed to be keeping watch - how many enemies had they stumbled past, completely unaware? Were they being watched right now?

Heart speeding, America took a few deep breaths before standing sharply, drawing the eyes of his allies.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said, more an order than a suggestion. With mixed groans and sighs, the others stood, dusting themselves off and following America down the street. Obsessively, he checked every crossroad they approached for enemies, the explosives in Canada’s bag tuning his ears for any hissing fuses or hidden traps. The apprehension in his chest felt heavy, the mountain and a nearby tall building sandwiching them and making him claustrophobic. He picked up the pace, hoping to escape the feeling, checking back on his companions every few moments to make sure they were still following. America’s distress spread like a disease, the others remaining quiet but for their heavy breathing as they tried to keep up.

From the corner of his eye, a flash of black hair alerted him of their shadows, the young tributes still trailing behind at a safe distance. He did his best to set them aside in his mind, but their constant presence felt like jaws snapping at his heels, forcing him forward. If they could just reach the end of the city, find some water and a place to rest, maybe he could take a moment to breathe. 

As America leaned forward to clear a new street, a delicate hand appeared on his shoulder. He jerked away, ready to fight off an attack, but was met only with Canada’s disapproving face, his lips drawn in a tight line as he gave his brother a warning look.

“Alfred, that’s enough,” he advised. Sweeping his hand, he motioned to his exhausted companions, the children barely keeping on their feet. “We need a break.”

Watching his panting, sweaty group, America became aware of the midday sun beating down on them, the dryness in his throat and his own dwindling energy. Guilt pooled in his stomach.

“Sorry,” he said with a sigh, checking over his shoulder one last time before shaking his head to clear the paranoia. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”

Romano chose a small building for them, similar to the one they’d spent the previous night in, and led them to the roof to prepare a meagre meal. Opening a bag of dried meat with his knife, America tried to relax, resting against the low wall and counting his breaths. He couldn’t let his judgement slip like that again. Focusing on the soft breeze in his hair, his companions’ voices lulling and calm, he tore a piece of jerky with his teeth, feeling suddenly exhausted after their long march through the city.

With a groan, America rested his head against the stone, wishing he’d slept better the night before. A short nap wouldn’t hurt. He’d just rest his eyes - the others could keep watch without him for a few moments. Eyelids drooping shut, he let the dark-haired boys, the arena, and all the dangers of the world slip away to the haze of sleep.

\----

When the light of the sky dimmed and the rock against his back began a soft, rumbling hum, America felt himself rousing. There were voices, vaguely - Italy and Romano’s, and when America focused, he became aware of the increasing distress in their tones.

Forcing his eyes open, America pushed himself stiffly into a sitting position, the tremors beneath him increasing by the second. The world still hazy from his rough sleep, America’s hand was instantly on his knife as he blearily searched for enemies. The Italians were still shouting, and Canada and the girls were on their feet, necks craned and eyes on the sky.

Breath heavy and heart pounding, America followed their gazes. The blue sky was gone, replaced by billowing, angry clouds that draped a thick shadow over the arena. Clambering to his feet, the air was heavy in America’s lungs as Canada shouted rushed orders to pack up their supplies, startling the others out of their confused panic.

Ground rumbling beneath his sleep-jellied legs, America heaved his bag onto his shoulder, recoiling when an intensely acrid stench burned his nostrils and stung his eyes. 

When Italy gave a sudden, shrill cry, America turned towards him. He stood on the edge of the roof, quivering and pointing to the mountain. There was smoke, then an ear-splitting crack jarred America’s bones, a shockwave striking with enough force to send the tributes crashing to the ground. Scrambling back to his feet, America’s head jerked to the mountain just in time to watch a bright, thick spray explode from the summit. 

“ _ Volcano! _ ” Romano shrieked, voice nearly lost in the rumbling. 

America could only watch, frozen in horror, as an entire sea’s worth of lava tore an unnatural column into the sky, pouring down the slope towards the city below. It clung to the stone where it touched and burned the backs of America’s eyes, but he couldn’t look away. Rubble and bits of rock showered over the arena, crumbling walls and digging craters into the earth.

“ _ Run! _ ” someone screamed, jolting America to life. The wave of lava had already reached the city, swallowing buildings beneath the surface, and America scrambled to get his footing. Italy and Romano vanished down the stairs nearly instantly, bags flung haphazardly on their backs, and Canada was herding the girls forward. Smoke hindered their movements, and when Ava stumbled, she fisted her hands into Canada’s jacket to catch herself. Righting her with a jerk of his arm, Canada sent her down the stairs, turning to America to shout something lost to the roar of smoke.

America grabbed his brother’s wrist, yanking him down the stairwell after the others. They met them outside, Italy clumsily tying jackets around the girls’ noses and mouths as makeshift masks.

“That tall building, run to that tall building!” America ordered, finding it through the thick air. The smoke stung his throat and lungs as he took off down the street, his allies chasing after him. Shards of stone threw clouds of dust around him, fragments stinging and painful where they met skin like shrapnel. Canada scooped Ava over his shoulder when she tripped over herself, his other hand gripped tight around Dawn’s arm, and America could hear Romano forcing Italy along with shouted Italian and shoving hands. The tall building grew closer as they ran, exhaustion lost in the smoke, burning heat lapping at their heels and pushing them forward.

His brother’s pitched voice, barely audible over the noise, snapped America’s eyes over his shoulder. Some distance behind, lava pooling and flowing down the street towards them, Canada struggled to haul Dawn to her feet, exhaustion and heavy coughs stumbling her legs. Ava sputtered from her position on Canada’s back, and he jerked his shoulders to keep her upright, his own body heaving.

“Alfred,  _ help me! _ ” he shrieked, tight and terrified. Heels digging into the dirt, America spun on himself, charging back to his brother’s side. Throwing Dawn onto his back, he steadied Canada with a grip to his upper arm. The lava was nearly on them, now, and as America pulled his brother into a run he could feel the heat singeing his neck. With Dawn’s harsh, wheezed breaths in his ears and the smoke in his vision, all he could do was run, blindly following the Italies and hoping they were leading in the right direction.

His feet suddenly met tile, smooth and polished beneath his boots, and he almost tripped when faced with a short flight of stairs. He took them two at a time, blinking the smoke from his eyes in the fresher air of the building and barely taking a moment glance over the circular stone room he came into; it was all white marble with dark accents, a single, stone pillar supporting the ceiling in the centre. The lava biting at the steps behind him and seeing the Italies disappear up another stairwell drew his attention instead. 

A sharp gasp made him throw a glance over his shoulder as he made for the stairs, and he froze in horror when Canada suddenly  _ stopped _ . Jaw dropped and legs trembling, Canada seized at the top of the steps, hardly reacting to Ava’s yanking at his hair in an attempt to get him to move.

“Matthew, what are you  _ doing!? _ ” America shouted, heaving Dawn further up his back. “Move! We have to go!”

At the sound of his voice, Canada snapped back to the moment, startling like he’d been shocked. Finally gathering his bearings, he sprinted towards America just in time to outpace the lava as it bubbled over the steps to fill the landing, throwing glowing splatters against the walls and spiking the temperature in the room.

Canada was still out of it, eyes glassy, but America pulled him forward and around the bend to the stairwell. Clambering up the steps as fast as they could go with the children on their backs, their breaths grew louder as they outpaced the rising lava, their climb only halted when they burst out into the grey of the clouded sky above them.

Spilling onto the rooftop, America dumped his charge and duffel onto the ground as carefully as he could, on his hands and knees as he coughed and sputtered around the smoke in his lungs. Italy appeared in his vision, helping Dawn sit and rubbing her back, following Canada’s example as he worked on Ava.

America could still hear the bubbling of the rising lava, and he forced himself into motion, crawling to the edge of the roof and begging it to stop. A moment later, Romano joined him, hands on the low wall and gasping out prayers as the lava surged below. It flowed between the rows of buildings, blackened and cracking red on the surface as it churned. 

A heavy groan from Romano sent America’s eyes to his ash-coated face, following his gaze as he stared into the buildings below. Breath hitching, America found them - two boys, barely fifteen, thin, with black hair. One dragged the heavily burnt form of the other across the roof of a house three storeys below, the body’s skin peeled and charred and nearly unrecognisable, leaving a gruesome smudge behind him. America’s stomach twisted as the standing brother seemed to realise his fate, the rising lava lapping at the edge of the roof. He dropped to his knees, gathering his brother in a hug. Weakly, America convinced himself it was reciprocated.

Heart in his throat, America turned away, pressing his back into the wall, focusing on his own brother as Canada buried Ava’s face into his shoulder, a hand clamped over her exposed ear to dampen the sounds. The screams lasted much longer than America would wish for anyone. 

Crawling weakly to Canada’s side, he pressed his eyes into his brother’s ash-coated hair, squeezing them shut in a feeble attempt to suppress tears. Canada’s free, trembling hand curled into the fabric of America’s back, tightening their hold on each other as cannon fire cracked around them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I missed updating last week, eh? I've been sucked into the pokemon sw/sh fandom and it's been taking up a lot of my brain space lately... anyway, here's the next chapter! Short and sweet and the fallout from the eruption.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: cursing, implied chronic depression, and arguments.

Long after the screams were replaced by the gurgling of lava, a sense of perverse calm fell over America, allowing him the comfort to finally release Canada from his grip. His brother gave him a troubled, exhausted look, the bags under his eyes made heavier by the ash smudged on his cheeks and the filmy coating on his glasses.

Leaving Canada to reassure Ava, America crawled stiffly back to Romano, who’d remained glued to the edge of the roof. America didn’t know if he’d watched the buildings - and those other tributes - sink into the lava, but his pale skin and distant eyes suggested he might have. 

With a sweeping glance over the arena, America assessed the damage. He could see the tops of the handful of taller buildings studded across the city, anything below three storeys sunken beneath the surface. Faint, tiny forms moved about on the other rooftops, non-recognisable groups of tributes congregating for refuge on the sparse islands of safety. The top of the Colosseum had been spared, and America could barely see the shine of the Cornucopia within. 

Finally turning to the volcano itself, he was relieved to see that the lava had stopped pouring from its peak, the surface already receding and revealing the preserved, black-coated shells of the structures beneath.

The tension drained from his shoulders with a sigh, but he flinched when the exhale stung his throat. Shuffling back to his bag, he dug his water bottle from its depths, grimacing at the remaining mouthful at the bottom. He couldn’t help himself from drinking the remaining contents, swishing the water in his mouth before swallowing. It felt like heaven on the way down.

His companions were sluggishly shaking off their shock, sipping at their own water bottles and looking more tired than they had in days. From the corner of his eye, America heard Romano curse sharply under his breath, ready to whip his empty bottle as far as he could. America prepared to stop him, but relaxed when Romano’s arm fell limply to his side.

They were now completely out of water.

Another uncomfortable sigh tore itself from America’s throat, and he carefully allowed himself to succumb to his weariness, leaning back against the wall and dazedly following clouds of smoke with his eyes to wait out the receding lava. 

They remained where they were for the next handful of hours, waiting for the streets to cool, the children unnaturally docile and glassy as they sat huddled together. Among the others, however, even America could feel the increasing tension. Thirsty and tired, none of them appreciated being cornered on the roof, uncertain and afraid of what would come next.

While Italy sat small against the wall, having not spoken for an impressive amount of time, his brother stalked impatiently before him, pacing like an aggravated, caged animal. Pressure built in America’s chest, agitated by the Italian’s sharp, angered motions and grumbled obscenities. Nearby, even the ever-temperate Canada sat hunched and glaring, eyes following Romano’s movements as a predator might its prey.

“Pom- _fucking_ -peii! Of _course_ it had to be!” Romano continued his tirade, kicking a loose stone with all his strength, sending it clattering across the roof. “I _knew_ these fucking streets looked familiar! We _could_ have gotten a nice forest, maybe the beach, but _nooo._ We’re stuck in _this_ shithole inst-”

“ _Lovino!_ ” Canada was the first to snap, sharp and tense. Lip lifted in a snarl, his eyes locked with Romano’s as he returned the look with a scowl. “Just _be quiet!_ ”

Fire in his eyes, Romano squared his shoulders, coming to stand before the sitting North American. America felt his own hackles rise, but Romano’s focus was locked on his brother.

“And what’ll you do if I don’t, asshole? _Kill me?_ ” Practically spitting in Canada’s face, Romano stepped closer yet, leaning down until their noses nearly touched. “Why the fuck should I listen to you? You’re gonna kill us either way!”

Anger now clear in the set of his brow, Canada stood, towering over the much shorter Italian. Romano did not back down, eyes still locked with Canada’s and glaring with enough disdain to bring generals to their knees.

“Watch your language. There are _children_ here,” Canada hissed, sharp with a rare rage that lifted the hair on America’s arms as he pulled himself to his feet. Ava and Dawn were rousing from their huddled sadness, eyes widening as they registered the anger in the air around them. America needed to intervene, or this would go south quickly.

“Oh, _get over it,_ Matthew!” Nearly screaming now, Romano bared his teeth. “There are no fucking children in this world anymore! Look around you!” His arms lifted, gesturing to the scorched arena around them and the wider nation beyond. 

“You precious _children_ are slitting each other’s throats while their countrymen _watch!_ ” With a sharp huff through his clenched teeth, Romano prodded a finger aggressively into Canada’s chest. “Face it, _stronzo!_ It’s over! Your innocent, happy world is _gone!_ ”

Canada’s expression dropped, replaced by the carefully-managed blankness America had come to associate with his resentment of the reality around them. Hand swinging up, Canada swatted Romano’s finger from his chest, eyes half-lidded and dull.

Before America could step between them, Italy’s arms appeared around Romano’s middle, pulling him out of Canada’s face. Reaching his hand for his brother’s sleeve, America’s fingers closed around empty air as Canada turned sharply away, stalking towards the stairs with robotic calmness. 

For a few silent seconds, America’s hand hung limply in the air as he watched his brother’s retreating back. Then he was gone, leaving America to collect himself and shoot Romano a pointed glare. He didn’t seem to notice, arms crossed and eyes stubbornly glued to the stone beneath his feet as Italy tried desperately to calm him. 

Deciding to deal with the bad-tempered Italian later, America sent the girls, who were still huddled together against the wall with tears falling down their cheeks, and order of _stay here_ with his eyes, before hurrying after his brother.

\----

America’s boots thumped unsettlingly on the polished white stone beneath them, echoing down the long, silent lengths of corridor as he searched for his brother. He took his time - Canada was a thinker, and America knew he’d appreciate a moment to collect himself, but leaving him alone for too long would only be detrimental. For as much as Canada thought, he also worried. 

And he’d been hurt. Not physically - he was dehydrated, maybe, but his body was still in one piece. Instead, America felt the shaking of his brother’s fragile convictions in his chest as if they were his own. There was still some hope in him, hope for the world and their people, but that could only bring a nation so far. 

And _this place_ was doing nothing for him. There existed no worse place in the world than an arena, but Panem had clearly been expecting them. Maliciousness was built into the very walls, and America grabbed at the pin on his chest for comfort, relieved to still find it there.

He followed a deep green line in the floor, letting it guide him down the hall. The tall, arched roof above his head echoed his own breaths and footsteps back to him, and the walls looked distinctly empty without the paintings that should have hung on them. The inscriptions were still there, however, faded and worn and written in one of two languages. From the outside, the structure looked no different than the sea of dusty, red buildings around it, a facade concealing an interior far more intricate. 

Heavy wooden doors opened into posh, tiled rooms, and America found them devoid of furniture when he checked them, and finally, he reached the one he was looking for. The door was no different than those of the others, but when he pushed it open, he felt momentary disappointment that the creak so ingrained into his memory did not occur.

The room’s wood paneling was exactly how he remembered it, the red-carpeted floor empty without the couches he had so-often lounged on with his brother. He had hoped it would be left there, for them. Apparently not.

Turning to his left, America searched his brother’s face. Canada sat against the wall, legs sprawled and head back, eyes closed in thought, but America was not fooled into thinking his guard was down. Footsteps softened by the carpet, America moved to his brother’s side, sliding down the wall next to him. 

The silence stretched for a moment, and America let it, simply taking in the room around him. It was so much like how America remembered it, he had to remind himself that it was impossible.

“It’s faithful,” Canada said, soft in the quiet air, “but still not real.”

America turned his head in time to watch his brother’s hand lift from his lap, settling above his heart.

“It doesn’t feel quite right, here,” Canada explained, eyes cracked to stare blankly at the ceiling. “I think that’s something he’ll never understand.”

Unsure of what to say, America simply nodded in agreement. Canada was right - no matter how hard Panem tried, he would never be able to recreate the feeling and passion of the old world. This very building was all the proof they needed - it looked right, a perfect recasting, but was wrong in every way that mattered. Canada’s parliament building simply no longer existed, crumbled away along with everything else. 

With a deep sigh, Canada’s eyes closed again, his head tipping back to rest against the wall. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset, earlier.”

“Not your fault,” America assured, this subject easier. “Lovino was being an asshole.”

Canada hummed, sad and disbelieving.

“We’re all on edge, I only made things worse.” His hands came up to scrub at his face. “I’ve just been so angry, recently. I’m angry at Panem, at my own failures, and that all I can do is be upset about it. I’m angry, and I’m sad, and I want things to change but I just don’t know what I can do.”

Despite how well America knew his brother, the admission was surprising. He’d seen Canada angry before, in times long forgotten by the humans. By contrast, the Canada he had come to know since the end of the rebellion could only be described as _despondent._

“All we can do for now is survive,” America said, wishing he had something new to say after seventy-five years of repeating it. 

A tight, forced smile bent the corners of Canada’s lips, and he turned to look at America with heavy eyes.

“I’m tired of simply _surviving,_ Al,” he whispered, like saying it too loudly would bring the building down around them. “What if Lovino’s right? What if this is really all that’s left for it all?”

America’s hand found his brother’s knee. “That’s why we have to win,” he assured, begging for his brother to believe him. “When we do, things’ll be different. You’ll see. We’ll get to leave 12. We can see the other districts, help people out. But most importantly…” 

He grabbed his brother’s upper arms, looking into his eyes with all the conviction he could muster. “...people will see _us._ We won’t have to hide anymore. We’ll have the power to _change_ things, to _provide_ hope.”

A growing part of him truly believed it. After they won, there would be no more sitting and waiting. He couldn’t stand it. It’d taken the Hunger Games for him to realise it, but now he knew that it was time for action. If a revolution wouldn’t start itself, then they’d be there to do it themselves. 

Canada's eyes told America he was unconvinced, but his face melted into a small, painful smile.

“Ever the optimist, eh?” he huffed softly, resigned to following America wherever he led. Face cracking into a wide grin, America wiggled his eyebrows playfully, invitingly. With a heavy chuckle, Canada’s eyes roamed over the stonework of his old office, lips lifted into a soft smile.

“Alright,” he conceded, barely audibly even in the silence. “I guess you’re right. We’ll win, _survive._ Then, we can make this world… _our_ world, right again.”

He turned back to America, expression less shaky than it had been before, and shifted in for a hug. America returned it full-force, feeling his brother’s breath on his nape and listening to the ghostly silence of Centre Block.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please prepare for things to go very very wrong for our little tributes ;)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! This chapter's been mostly written for a while, but I got hung up on a piece of dialogue...
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: minor character death, blood, violence.

The stairs to the roof were barely in sight when Canada stopped, head quirked.

“Do you hear that?” he asked. Suddenly nervous, America held his breath and listened. He was expecting voices, or shouts, but instead picked up a faint pitter-patter, so quiet he would not have noticed without Canada’s sharp attention. The sound collected speed with each passing moment, and America’s eyes met his brother’s, shining in relief.

“It’s raining!” he shouted, already racing up the stairs. The smell of damp stone and dirt was heavenly in his nose, the grey sky opening above him to drop rain on his face and spread hands.

The others gathered around him, pulled from their thoughts by the water on their skin as it washed the past few days away. Italy laughed in disbelief, his arms extended to the clouds, the girls staring with wide eyes like they couldn’t believe it was real. Canada ran for his copper bucket, holding it out like a beggar.

Inspired by his brother’s idea, America lept for the bags of supplies, digging through the empty water bottles until he found the spool of twine and the tarp, pleased when Italy helped him unfold it and tie twine to the rivets along the edges. Ava and Dawn, reanimated by the rain, jumped to their sides to watch them use loose rocks and the half-wall to suspend the tarp’s corners upwards, Canada placing his bucket under their makeshift funnel. Water poured in satisfying rivulets down the tarp, steadily adding to the modest few centimetres at the bottom.

With relief, America turned his eyes to the arena around them, wiping at his brow and glad that his sleeve came away wet with something other than sweat or blood. Thick clouds of steam rose from the streets, the black, charred remains of the lava hissing and evaporating away in the rain like it was acid. He wondered for a moment if they should be wary of the water - it had been weaponized in games before, but so far it didn’t hurt his skin. It simply washed away the coating of lava from the streets, revealing the red stone of the city that looked no worse than it had before.

“Alfred!” Canada called, turning America’s attention back to the roof. Canada had the bags strung over his shoulder, waving him towards the stairs where Italy led the others down. “Come out of the rain, you’re gonna get sick!”

America flashed him a thumbs-up, turning back to the city one more time and enjoying the water on his face. The group of tributes on the nearest landmark had also retreated indoors, he noticed, and with a rejuvenating breath of damp air, America turned to follow after his companions.

Things were finally starting to look up.

\----

They’d found a room on the upper floors of Centre Block, the tributes dispersing on the carpet to wait out the rain. America’s tailbone was getting numb from sitting on the floor for so long, but he appreciated the quiet moment indoors, occupying himself by watching the girls play. Well, they weren’t really playing, exactly - merely flicking a pebble back and forth like a tiny soccer ball, but it kept their minds busy.

Canada watched passively from where he was seated next to them, exhausted and spent but with adoration clear in the curve of his mouth. His doubt hadn’t fully cleared, America could tell - he looked for all the world like he was waiting for the axe to drop.

“Hey, Matthew?” Ava said eventually, leaving the pebble to roll past her and leaning more heavily against Canada’s side. “I’m really hungry, can we eat now?”

Sympathy welled in Canada’s eyes, his hand pausing to brush damp red hair from Ava’s face before reaching into a nearby backpack. After wrestling out the bag of jerky, he pulled out the last two strips of meat, handing one each to the children. 

America shot a glare Romano’s way when he looked like he wanted to protest, but the Italian only turned away with a scoff. He and Canada had been dutifully ignoring each other since the argument on the roof, the tension between them nearly palpable, and America only hoped it wouldn’t lead to problems.

It had been raining for nearly an hour, and they’d taken turns leaving their chosen room to empty the bucket into their water bottles every few minutes. America never imagined being in the Hunger Games could ever be _boring,_ but he supposed he shouldn’t take the tentative peace for granted. At least now their bottles were full, which boded well to him. Already he could feel life and patience returning among his allies.

His relief turned to sleepiness. It was nearing evening, and the stress from the day was catching up to him. Closing his eyes briefly, he grunted to signal he’d heard when Canada announced he’d go fill the last of the bottles and collect the stuff from the roof.

“Be good for me, alright?” he said, giving the girls a tender pat on the head each. “I’ll see you in a moment.”

They smiled at him, as lovingly as he looked at them, and then he was gone. In the silence, America allowed himself the rest. At least, until a timid voice forced him to crack an eye open a few minutes later.

“Hey, um, Alfred?” He found Dawn standing over him, her sister not far behind. With a sigh, he righted himself further up the wall, sitting straight to crack his back.

“What’s up?” he asked, still somewhat bleary from his near-nap. 

“We have to go to the bathroom,” Ava mumbled, her boot scuffing nervously at the carpet. “We were gonna wait for Matthew to get back, but…”

 _Oh._ America glanced around the room, wondering if they could just squat down in a corner to do their business. It had worked fine out in the crumbling stone huts of the city, but America quickly concluded that not even he was comfortable doing it here. Running a mental map of Centre Block through his mind, America located the nearest washrooms, pushing himself to his feet.

“Alright. I could go as well,” he said, patting Ava on the head to ease her embarrassment. Turning to Italy and Romano, he found them absorbed in sharing an apple. 

“Hey, Lovino!” he called.

“We heard ya, you bastard,” Romano grumbled without looking up, grumpily slicing another piece off the fruit. “Don’t fall in, ‘cause I’m not fishing you out.”

Giving them a grin that Italy returned, America led the way out the door and into the hall, the girls following dutifully after. As a last-second thought, he leaned back into the room.

“Tell Mattie where we went if he gets back before us, ‘kay?” When he got a grunt and an enthusiastic ‘yes, sir!’ in response, he turned to guide the girls down the arched hallways of Centre Block.

He tried to keep on high alert, but something about the soft white of the marble around him, the familiar sounds of their steps off the walls, and the smell of rain in the air put America in a good mood. The girls dutifully kept pace at his side, but their tight faces reminded him of the situation.

“How are you two holding up?” he asked, realising that he’d hardly spoken to them since before the games.

“We’re okay,” Dawn replied, looking like she wasn’t fully convinced of it.

“I’m really tired, though,” Ava added. It was to be expected, America thought. The rain had washed away most of the dirt and dehydration, but they were still two kids trapped in a death match. They’d been lucky so far when it came to avoiding conflict, but America had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t last. If the afternoon had been boring for them, it must have been so for the audience. The gamemakers couldn’t have that, so something was bound to change, and soon.

“I know,” he said, giving the most reassuring smile he could. It felt disingenuous on his face. “Once we’re all packed up, we can go find somewhere safer to rest.” The girls only hummed in response, and Dawn paused in front of a row of flower-shaped carvings in the wall.

“...I’m kinda worried about Matthew,” she said suddenly, the others stopping to let her catch up. “And Lovino, of course. I wish they wouldn’t fight.”

“Lovi’s too mean!” Ava jumped in, curling her arms over her chest. “Mattie’s just trying to help, and now he’s sad.”

Both girls turned to look at America, hoping for answers with round eyes and downturned lips. It tugged at something in his heart. With his intention to win the games, America could not convince himself that he wasn't complicit in whatever happened to them.

“Yeah, Mattie and Lovino are a little stressed right now,” he settled for. “We all are. They’re doing their best, though, and I hope you are too.”

Dawn scoffed. “Of course we are,” she said, at the same time that Ava shouted “We are!” Her head nodded so hard America wondered if it might fall off. “We’re not very helpful, but we’re trying our hardest.”

In any other situation, America would have laughed. As it was, he managed a pitiful smile and patted them both on the head. “And that’s all we can ask of you. You’re both doing great.”

With careful pride in their steps, the girls followed America the rest of the way down the hall, past the main stairwell, and to a non-descript wooden door. He hoped he had remembered the place correctly, and that the washrooms would be accessible to them. Pushing lightly against the door, he was pleased when it swung open, revealing a line of sinks and wooden stalls. The girls scampered past him, disappearing inside.

America finished his own business quickly, taking a moment to flick open one of the taps while he waited. Unsurprisingly, it was unusable, and the mirror above the sink left him with an unflattering view of himself after everything. The rain had cleared patchy spots of dirt from his skin, making him look at least partially alive, but the undersides of his eyes were stained a deep purple and his hair had dried in awkward tufts that he tried unsuccessfully to pat down. With a sigh, he turned to lean against the counter, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands in an attempt to wipe away the bags there.

A moment later, Dawn appeared at his side, her sister not far behind and looking relieved. 

“Better?” he asked, chuckling when they gave exaggerated nods. “Good. Let’s head back, then.”

Allowing Dawn to lead, America followed the girls back into the hall, the door clattering shut behind them. He glanced around to scan the hall as an afterthought, and his heart stopped when a shout sliced the air. 

The world slowed, muscles from the tips of his toes to his fingers tensing in a ripple. Careers poured from the main stairwell to their right, half a dozen of them at least, blocking the path to their allies. Momentarily, America’s eyes met those of the fierce man who had bruised Canada’s cheek during training, before he yanked the girls backwards with a hand on each of their arms. They shrieked, but America did not relent in pulling them into a run down the hallway, the cries of the Careers hot on their tails. 

_It’s too early for this_ , America thought, dragging the girls to the next set of stairs with his pulse in his ears. It had been a mistake to shelter in place once the lava receded, America realised too late. Now they were separated, unrested, and woefully unprepared for a confrontation.

Reaching the stairwell, he sent the girls down first, pausing to glance over his shoulder. Only two of the Careers were giving chase, a teenage girl and a young man, the others kicking down doors in the hall behind them. He caught a glimpse of a pouch of throwing knives on the man’s hip, far less intimidating than the nasty-looking scythe the girl clutched in her hands. If he fought the incoming tributes now, America could probably take them. The Careers made a mistake cutting down their numbers, but their allies were not far behind, and the tight spaces of Centre Block would not work in America’s favour. 

His mind jumped to Canada, and the Italies - had his brother gone back to their room? Were they waiting for him to return, cornered and exposed? In desperation, America pinched his thumb and forefinger between his lips to let out a sharp, wailing whistle that echoed hauntingly off the walls. He could only hope Canada would hear it.

Jumping back to dodge a swing of the scythe, he planted his hand on the stairwell’s banister for leverage and landed a kick to the girl’s exposed side, before turning on his heel to follow the girls down the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he caught up with them quickly, hoisting Ava off the ground by her arm to bypass the steps. Dawn made good time, and at the bottom, America dumped Ava back on her feet as the Careers’ voices echoed down the stairwell. Bolting for the entrance, America knew their pursuers were approaching faster than his companions’ shorter legs could carry them. 

The wet air of the street was a relief when they made it out the front door, but America needed distance. Scooping a stone off the ground, he threw it as hard as he could without breaking stride, managing to catch the girl in the knee as she came into sight. It did no more than trip her up, the man stumbling over her, but it gave America the head start he needed.

Disappearing into the stone streets of the city, he led Ava and Dawn with his hands in their shirt collars, finally yanking them from their paths and into the shadows of the first doorway he found.

“Stay here,” he ordered, forcing them behind some rubble and shoving the spare knife into Dawn’s hands. “Take this, protect your sister.”

“No, no please!” she cried, barely below a shout. They clung to America’s sleeves, pulling at him, the knife clutched in Dawn’s white-knuckled grip. “Don’t leave us alone, we can’t-”

“Be quiet! I’ll be back,” he promised sharply, shaking them off with two jerks of his arms. He didn’t stop to listen to their pleading, already back in the street and making as much noise as possible to draw away the Careers. The man turned the corner a moment later, knuckles lined with throwing knives. The girl did not follow. As a knife barely missed America’s throat and he turned to run, he could only hope she wouldn’t come searching.

He barely made it another block when a blade nicked the side of his calf, the Career’s aim much better than that of the tributes he’d encountered the day before. The range would be a problem - America had only his one knife, and couldn’t afford to throw it. When the road came to a dead-end, he did the only thing he could think of, inspired by his earlier effort. Swiping a brick from a collapsed wall, he turned and chucked it at the man. Not the most heroic of plans, perhaps, but it caught the Career square in the shoulder and he cried out in pain, stumbling to a stop.

Feeling the pressure of the three walls around him, America used the moment to charge the tribute, unlatching his knife from its sheath. The man recovered quickly, taking two steps back to dodge America’s blade and preparing a swipe of his own. Not giving him the chance, America closed the distance between them, free hand grabbing the other tribute’s wrist before he could throw. The man’s knee met America’s stomach, winding him, and when his boots skidded out on the wet stone, he brought the Career down with him. 

They grappled on the ground, America on his back and fighting to keep enemy blades away from his throat, unable to catch his breath. The hand holding his knife was pinned beneath the tribute’s knee, and a lack of air danced spots in his eyes. The Career reared upward to slash at America’s face, and in the split-second before the knife came down, America’s free hand found the brick he’d thrown earlier. America bucked his hips, giving an opening enough to swing it into the man’s skull.

With a sickening crack, the Career dropped. America’s arm now free, it took only one swift jab of his knife to finish the job. Cannonfire cracked as the man’s body went limp, his blood running through the cracks in the cobblestone as America fought to sit. His breath was finally returning to him, and he pulled himself to his feet, feeling nauseous in the presence of the corpse. 

The man’s split skull was still fresh in his mind when a cry spun him around, just in time to deflect the scythe’s blade with the sheath on his wrist. The force of the blow sent him sprawling again, knife lost and mud in his eyes as he scrambled to get away. He could hear the scythe’s slices in the air behind him. He didn’t stop moving once he’d gotten his feet back under him, wiping desperately at his eyes until he could get them open. 

Through mud-splotched vision, the dark blur of the girl approached faster than he could stumble backwards. She was a half-pace away, limping on her injured leg, the scythe in her hands held as naturally as a pencil. 

_District 9,_ his brain provided unhelpfully, _grain._

What she was doing with the Careers, he didn’t have time to contemplate. He’d barely blinked the spots out of his eyes before the blade came down again, and his back struck a wall when he leapt out of reach. Cornered, he felt panic in the bile in his throat as she prepared another strike. The curved blade of the scythe would be near-impossible to block - he’d been lucky to avoid being sliced in half the first time.

Spotting his knife on the ground near the other tribute’s body, he rolled under the swing of the scythe, hearing it clatter off the wall where he’d been a split second before. The girl screamed in frustration as he got to his feet, lunging to scoop up his knife and turning on his heel to face her. He felt better with it in his hands, though it wouldn’t do much against her weapon.

But she was tiring, and faster than him. He could tell by the heaving of her shoulders, the trembling of her arms. Clearly, the scythe was heavy, each swing leaving her back exposed as she overcorrected her balance. 

One opening was all it took. The scythe swung sideways, barely missing the flesh of America’s stomach, and in a calculated risk, he threw his knife. It was improperly weighted and clumsy, but sunk into the girl’s shoulder blade. She recoiled, screaming, and America was in her space, fingers locking around the handle of the scythe to wrench it from her grip.

Despite being wounded, she didn’t relent, yanking the weapon towards herself and bringing America with it. For a moment, they were eye-to-eye, before her forehead smashed into his. They both stumbled, the scythe still connecting them, but the girl’s feet tripped over the body of her fallen ally. Bleary from the blow to his head and driven only by instinct, America twisted the handle of the scythe, turning the blade beneath her. She landed heavily on the point, gurgled for a few painful seconds, and went still to the sound of cannonfire.

Exhausted and weary, America let go of the scythe’s handle like it burned. It stood upright, held in place by her flesh, while he collapsed to the ground. He’d just killed them. The man - barely an adult, he couldn’t have been over twenty-five, and the girl from 9. They were dead and gone and he had been the one to take them.

He lay on the wet stone of the street, waiting for his head to stop pounding and watching the sky turn orange with the setting sun. Distantly, he registered the falling temperature - it’d be another cool night. 

Just as his pounding heart was finally calming, his thoughts jumped to Canada and his allies. Were they alive? Needing him? Trapped in that building with the Careers hunting them? He rolled to push himself to his feet, determined to find the others, but stumbled. 

The ground heaved beneath him with a nearby explosion, and Centre Block collapsed in a shower of dust.


End file.
